A Night's Dream of Music
by Angelmuse
Summary: Christine first comes to realize that she loves a masked genius who composes immortal music in a house by a lake, beneath the Opera House. This story is based mostly on the 2004 movie, and was originally a one-shot that simply expanded.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, of course. Yet, they have taken possession of me, to such an extent, that I sometimes have to remind myself that I'm still living in the mundane world, where I have to get up in the morning to go to work, so I can pay bills...Oh, for the romance of this immortal tale!**

**A/N: This story is based on the most romantic, most exquisite version of "The Phantom of the Opera" -- the 2004 movie. I had originally planned it as a one-shot, but my muses, kept bothering me to continue it...I have had to delete the original one, and upload it again, thus losing my reviews. Oh, well... **

**Great BIG huggles go out to The Mouse In The Opera House, Mallory Glasson, AphelionKnight, Jamea, sevenspiders, Kaylee Roura, PhantomLover05, and Chocolate-Pringles! I loved your reviews, guys! You wanted me to continue this story. Well, here it is! Hope you will review again! **

**1886, Paris**

**Chapter 1: Love Stirs**

He was at the organ, composing as he played. Notes cascaded through the air as his long fingers deftly moved over the keys. He was totally involved in the music that flowed through him, in the passion that enveloped him. Eyes closed, he allowed the strange rhythms to take him to the limits of reality. Bending over the organ, he seemed to coax it to produce sounds such as no musical instrument had ever produced before. He breathed in time with the sublime melodies that flowed from his soul...

She was watching him, totally mesmerized. Just who was this man who played so divinely, who brought tears to her eyes as she listened? He had whisked her away, down to these hidden levels at the Opera House, places she had never seen, which struck terror into her heart. Now, as she listened to him, all her fears forgotten, the unearthly music wove itself around her heart, filling her with a sweet ecstasy.

He was utterly masculine. Her heart beat faster in his presence, when she felt his eyes upon her. No such thing had ever happened when she was with the Vicomte, the young aristocrat who was so smitten with her. Indeed, she felt that he could never compare to this majestic genius whose music had transported her to new heights...Never had she heard such wonder, such thundering chords, followed by the tenderest notes, as if the music were alternately commanding, then pleading, its sonorous spell intoxicating the senses.

He was so absorbed in his playing that he was completely unaware of her presence.

She remembered well the first time she had listened to him thus. What followed next had been a traumatic experience for them both. She had torn off his mask, driven by an insane curiosity to see the fully-exposed face of this man whose heart and soul were shamelessly bared in his immortal music. She had merely wanted to cup his unmasked face in her hands, without any barriers between them...

She stirred uneasily now, as the memories laid seige on her mind. She had not wanted to look upon the consequences of her rash act, upon the ravaged face that had been revealed to her. He had forced her to look, nevertheless, screaming obscenities at her, hurting her with the sheer violence of his pain. Then he had retreated from her in horror and anguish, collapsing on the floor not far from where she half-knelt, still stunned.

She had never seen a man weep as he did then, his disfigured face in his hands...

She recalled crawling toward him, to place his mask within reach of his hands. She had then fled to the bedroom he had long ago prepared for her. Slamming the door in a fit of anger at her own foolishness, she had thrown herself on the swan-shaped bed, as tears of shame immediately engulfed her.

Much later, she had heard his knock at the door, his contrite voice, begging her forgiveness. Still shaking with fear, but still feeling guilty for having unmasked him, she had gone to open the door.

He had his mask back on. Silently taking her hand in his, he had brought it to his lips, feathering a kiss upon it. The light touch of his lips had made her shiver...

The cascade of glorious sound now came gently to an end, and there was silence, utter silence. She opened her eyes to see him hastily pull a notebook from a shelf near the organ, open it, and feverishly dip a feathered pen, again and again, into an inkwell he had set on top of the bench where he sat. He scribbled furiously for a very long time, while she continued to gaze upon him, amazed. He was apparently committing to paper every single note he had played. The man truly possessed a prodigious memory.

At last, he seemed to have written everything down, to his satisfaction. His body, which had been coiled with tension, relaxed. He breathed in deeply, stretched, and finally turned to her, smiling.

She had the distinct impression that he had just returned from a far-away land of enchantment that only he could visit...

"Christine..." His deep, melodic voice never failed to have its hypnotically sensuous effect on her. She smiled shyly at him, blushing.

"I had no idea you were there, listening." His smile dazzled her, in spite of the disfigurement. She was becoming accustomed to his maskless face.

"I know..." she replied, wonder in her voice. "Was that your music you were playing? You were totally immersed in it. It was as if the entire world had ceased to exist for you..."

"Yes, this is indeed my music, but you have been the inspiration for it. You, a beautiful, shy, angel of a girl...You have been my muse. I could not have written such divine music without you, for you are in my very veins..."

She was not entirely taken by surprise at this declaration. She had gradually become aware of his deep feelings for her. Was she herself beginning to reciprocate those feelings?

He rose from the bench, to walk, cat-like, to her side, as his eyes held her own.

She gazed up at him, completely lost in his intense, golden gaze. He leaned down, and, taking both of her hands, drew her up to stand before him.

"I know that you must surely be returning soon, and that the Vicomte de Chagny will be waiting for you," he said, so sadly that she suddenly felt as guilty as though she had betrayed him.

"Yes..." she agreed, slowly, without alluding to the young aristocrat. "I must return. There are rehearsals...We will soon be starting work on _Faust..."_

"You would make a magnificent _Marguerite..._"

She blushed again. "Surely you jest, Monsieur! You must be aware that the role belongs to Carlotta!"

"A truly unpleasant fact, Mademoiselle! You were made to sing it! With my help, you would soon make the Parisian public forget that ridiculous Italian peacock!"

She could not believe he was serious, and so looked away, saying nothing, until she felt his hand upon hers. Looking up, she encountered his unsettling, glowing orbs.

"My heart yearns for your love, Christine...Yet, it would mean nothing were I to attempt to force it from you. And I will not beg! Leave me now, if you must. Come, I will take you back across the lake."

She did not know what to say. She wanted to tell him that she did indeed love him, but somehow, the words would not come forth. Was it love, after all, that she felt for him, this mysterious man who had so beguilingly pulled her through her dressing-room mirror, not once, but several times now? So she silently gave her hand into his, and he, also remaining silent, led her toward the lake.

Just as she was about to step into the little boat, she was suddenly seized by a great sense of urgency, and turned back to look at him. She had to know...and she had to tell him, also...

"What is it, Christine?" he asked, gravely.

She felt a sudden rush of feeling. Tears sparkled in her eyes. She had to know..."Your name, Monsieur. I must know your name..."

He had donned his mask again, but she saw an unmistakable glint in his eyes. He wanted her; his whole being yearned for her.

"Why must you know my name?" His voice, a hoarse whisper of pure pain, raced like fire through her trembling body.

"Because...I have to know the name of..." She paused, swallowing with difficulty, as he waited, poised at the edge of Paradise.

"...the man I have...fallen in love with..."

He seemed to sway for a moment. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.

Her heart suddenly fluttered, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks.

After a moment, he attempted to regain his composure. Her words, spoken so impulsively, had irrevocably altered everything between them. Slowly, he reached out for her hand. When she gave it to him, he gently began to pull her toward him, away from the shore of the lake.

They stood before each other, eye to eye.

"Please repeat what you just said," he pleaded, softly and intensely. His breathing had suddenly become erratic, as he clutched her hands tightly, his eyes burning.

"I said...that I have to know the name...of the man I have fallen in love with..."

He closed his eyes again, and the most beautiful smile appeared on his lips as he gathered her into his arms. One of his hands began softly caressing her hair.

"Erik," he sighed, at her temple. An errant tear slipped down his unmarred cheek. "My name is Erik..."

"It is a beautiful name..." she whispered, trembling in his arms. "It is perfect, so perfect, for you."

He brought his head down, then. Removing the mask, he kissed her, softly, tenderly.

"I love you..." His hot breath whispered upon her virgin lips. "Stay with me...Let me love you as you deserve to be loved...with the most passionate caresses, the tenderest endearments, the most ardent kisses...Stay with me, my beautiful little diva, for you are my heart and soul..."

Her heart was torn. He was making an intoxicating offer, and she wanted to accept it. Dear Lord, what was happening to her? Yes, she loved him...She could not, however, give in to his overpowering sensuality, not so soon...

She pulled out of his arms, reluctantly. "I must leave...Do not ask from me what only a husband has a right to expect ..." Her breathing was as erratic as his, and she could not tear her eyes away from him.

He stared at her also, his rising passion evident in his entire body. He took a deep, rather shaky breath. Picking up one of her hands, he pressed a kiss upon it, smiling sadly.

"Forgive me. It was most unseemly of me...how could I offer to taint your innocence with no thought for the consequences? Yes, you must go back up above, where all is light and joy..."

"I will return...Erik." She liked the sound of his name upon her tongue. She savored it, giving him another of her shy smiles.

"I love the way you say my name, sweet Christine. Will you indeed return?"

"Yes! Oh, yes!" She squeezed his hands as tightly as she could.

"Say it, Christine! Please say it..."

"I love you, Erik..."

"Oh, my beloved..." he groaned, as he again enfolded her in his arms, taking her mouth with a voracious kiss that left her breathless. Then he released her, staring forlornly at her.

"I shall count the days until you are once more at my side, here, in this place that pays homage to Music. I shall come for you when you are ready."

She nodded, smiling so sweetly at him, it was all he could do to keep from sweeping her up in his arms, and returning to his house with her. Instead, he kissed her hand once more, then, putting his mask back on, helped her into the boat.

He rowed slowly away from the shore, while she reclined in the boat, watching him. She turned around once to look back at the house, but it was now shrouded in darkness. Christine felt a poignant joy, for she had first tasted love here, at this house on the lake. Though it was a mysterious, strange place, it was Erik's home, and so she had already begun to treasure it.

Yes, she would return. She would return to the man her heart had chosen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these wonderful characters. They are, however, archetypal, so of course they really belong to me, as they do to all of us who love them!**

**A/N: **

**Well...I had hoped for more reviews...I was not planning to continue, but the story is begging to be written! My muses started pounding on the door of my mind, giving me no peace, until at last I gave in! Also, I did get some very nice reviews from some very sweet "phellow phans" who wanted me to go on with the story. So here it is! Thank you for your comments! I certainly hope to be getting more reviews now!**

**Just a few notes about this chapter... **

**I have made Erik more responsive to Christine's conscience. She is able to persuade him not to do anything to alter the performance of _Faust_, allowing Carlotta to sing as planned. Also, the title role Carlotta did sing in the movie was for a fictional opera titled _Il Muto_, not _Faust_, which is really mentioned in Susan Kay's book. So I suppose some influences from this unforgettable author have also crept in...**

**Please enjoy, and review if delighted!**

**Chapter 2: Love's Call Answered Again... **

Christine's participation in the rehearsals for _Faust_ were at first nearly mechanical. Madame Giry, noticing her pallor and dream-like demeanor, attempted to question her, but Christine evaded her.

Even her very best friend, Meg, who was also her adoptive sister, became concerned. Christine merely sighed, smiling, and told Meg that there was no need to worry, as she was quite happy. Meg, puzzled, ran to her mother, who immediately knew whom to suspect...

Daily his voice came to her through the mirror. With endless patience and a teacher's detachment, he gave her instruction. His constant striving for perfection drove her on, as she did her best to meet all of his exacting demands. More than once, he had to apologize for bringing tears of pain to her eyes. Yet, his love was constantly with her. She could feel it in the timbre of his voice. She could feel it in his vibrant presence, even through the mirror.

"Christine..." There was such yearning in his voice tonight...

"What is it, Erik?" She suddenly became concerned.

"When can you return, my sweet love?"

She felt the rapidly accelerating thudding of her heart.

"The first performance shall be tomorrow night."

"With you in the principal role!"

"What do you mean? You know I am not singing _Marguerite_ !"

"Ah, but that may change..."

Instantly she became alarmed. She knew that he was quite capable of doing something terrible.

"I am afraid, Erik...Why are you so adamant about this? Do you intend to force the Opera directors to remove Carlotta, placing me in her stead?"

"Mademoiselle, never underestimate the resources of a Phantom!"

She felt a wave of anger.

"Erik..." she said, evenly, " I do NOT want you to do anything to prevent Carlotta from singing tomorrow night. If you do, I shall... refuse to come to your house again!"

There was a deathly silence. Then, she heard his voice, full of thunderous anger. Sudden fear speared through her body.

"You _dare _to threaten ME! You insolent little fool! Do you know whom you are speaking to?"

With wildly beating heart, she spoke against her fear.

"Yes...I am speaking to a very wounded man, who believes that the only way to get what he wants is to exert control based on fear."

She heard his sharp intake of breath, and this emboldened her.

"Yet, I have seen another side to this same man...a beautiful, tender side. I love that part of you, Erik. I love the man who can love so passionately, so sweetly. Please tell me that this side of you can be stronger than the other...I want to believe that it is possible, with all my heart..."

Again there was silence, a longer one this time. Then, his voice came to her again, thick with emotion.

"Truly you are an angel of light, my sweet Christine...I do not deserve such an angel..."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Whether or not you deserve her, she is yours, Erik. You are fearsome, but I have seen beneath the fear you inspire in me. You have taught me to be strong. Your love can be daunting, but I am ready to accept the challenge of loving you. You must know that. Now promise me that you will do nothing to prevent Carlotta from singing tomorrow night."

"In return for what, Christine? Surely you are aware that seeing you triumph on the stage will be immensely rewarding to me. Would you take that away from me?

"Yes!" she cried out. "Yes, I have to take that away from you, if it is unfairly achieved! Carlotta has a wonderful voice, and you shall not sabotage her career to further mine! Do you not care about my feelings in the matter? I do NOT wish to triumph at another's expense!"

She was trembling with anger now, tears streaming down her face, her small fists clenched.

There was silence again. This time, it stretched out interminably...

"Erik!"

There was not a sound to be heard from behind the mirror.

"Erik!"

Still there was no answer from him...

She turned from the mirror, shoulders slumped, and retreated to the small sofa across from it. She sat down slowly, wringing her hands, her head down.

"Do not weep, my sweet angel..." One of his gloved hands softly caressed her chin.

She lifted her head, and saw him standing before her through the blur of her tears. She smiled up at him, tremulously.

He sat down next to her on the sofa, and gathered her into his arms.

"If it means that much to you, I promise not to interfere." He whispered into her ear, causing her to shiver involuntarily.

Holding on to him tightly, she sobbed into his shoulder.

"Forgive me, my love. I am a monster, after all. You are right, I have been grievously wounded. Sometimes I lose control of my temper, to an alarming degree...And I have fits of black melancholy, in which I seem to hear the very voice of the Evil One...But you have brought light into my darkness. You are an angel of heaven..."

Lifting her head to his with one black-gloved hand, he gently placed his lips on hers.

The ensuing kiss was full of tenderness, of consuming love. She returned it blissfully, clutching him more tightly to herself. The kiss then turned ardent, as he sought entrance to her mouth. As their tongues met, a frisson of desire coursed through their bodies, and they held each other even more tightly. Breathing had become almost difficult for them both. Erik's right hand began to wander, and she felt it move down her back, below her waist...

Her head tilted back involuntarily, allowing him full access to her neck, which he then began to cover with kisses and passionate little nibbles...

There was a knock at the door.

Both of them jumped, startled, and Erik, lifting a finger to his lips, stood, and swiftly disappeared behind the mirror.

"Who...Who is it?" Christine called out in a shaky voice.

"It is your mother, Christine. I wish to speak with you, dear. Will you please open the door?"

"Mother Giry! I cannot speak with you now!"

"What is wrong, Christine? I am concerned about you! _Open this door at once!_ "

Christine looked wildly over at the mirror. She wondered if he was still there, waiting...Making a sudden decision, she quickly bounded over to it.

"Erik! Are you there?" she whispered as she stood close to the mirror, her hands on it.

Her answer was to see the mirror suddenly move, turning inward. Then she was through, and in his arms. Hurriedly kissing her, he then grasped her hand, and began guiding her along the still unfamiliar corridors, as Madame Giry's voice continued to call out to her, at the door.

After a few paces, they could no longer hear her. Only the sound of their own heavy breathing came to their ears. Down they went, ever downward, and Christine felt as though she were Eurydice, traveling with Orpheus through the underworld...

Once they paused, briefly, to feel each other's faces in the darkness, to kiss and pledge love once more to each other. Then they went on, she relying on his uncanny ability to see in the dark, on to the house where the magic throne of Music awaited them...


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own none of these characters...Of course, none of us drooling, hopelessly obsessed phans do...The fact that THEY own US is quite another matter!**

**A/N: **

**The events in this story are dictated by my subconscious, of course, where my muses dwell...Who knows what will come next? It's like opening a Christmas present! **

**MORE great BIG huggles going out, this time to: heids, Pertie, Pink Spider 11, lilblondegiry, fopfighters, and ghilliekitten! As to AngeMusique, thank you for your compliment about this story coming along nicely! I sure hope Erik continues to behave, but you know, there's no telling, is there? Hee, hee! **

**Chapter 3: The Birth Of A New Opera**

Once they arrived back at his house, he insisted on continuing with her interrupted lesson. She was somewhat surprised, disappointed, and relieved, all at the same time. Surely his intention had been more than clear as they unerringly moved through the darkened corridors...She had felt his body heat, close to her, and had heard his ragged breathing.

They had crossed the lake in silence, he rowing purposely, speedily toward the mysterious house where those incredible melodies lifted up from the powerful organ, given life by his magic fingers.

Pushing the boat to the edge of the lake, he nimbly jumped ashore, then secured it to his wharf. Then he turned, taking Christine's hand to help her out of the boat.

When once again she stood in front of him, he gazed upon her face for several long minutes. His right hand lifted to caress it as he stared at her thoughtfully.

"I must be so careful with you, my love..." he whispered. "You are a delicate treasure to be cherished. I must not trample your loveliness with the violence of my temper. Come, enter the hallowed halls of Music's domain. I am writing a new opera, especially for you..."

She smiled in sheer delight.

"You are writing an opera...for me?" She could scarcely believe it.

He smiled back at her, pleased at her reaction. "You can no longer accuse me of attempting to promote you at the expense of presumptous Italian singers," he teased, with his effortlessly sensuous smile.

"Oh, Erik!" She blushed furiously, then suddenly placed her arms around his neck, giving him an impulsive kiss on his unmasked cheek.

His mood swiftly changed, and his eyes locked with hers as he took a deep, shaky breath.

"Christine..." His beautiful voice thrummed along her sensitive nerve endings. "If I am to remain a gentleman in your presence, you must promise me that you will refrain from any contact except that necessary between teacher and pupil."

She smiled impishly. "I shall endeavor to obey your commands, Monsieur Le Professeur!"

Erik laughed, taking her hand again to lead her toward the organ.

"Very well, then, let us begin..."

She stood next to the organ as he sat down on the bench. Placing his hands on the keys, he began.

Five minutes later, she was in tears. The music had throbbed through her soul, tearing into her heart with its inexpressibly violent beauty. She was immediately moved, as she had never been before. She felt as if the notes were intimate caresses, passionate embraces. The music knew her intimately. It made love to her, demanding surrender even as it entreated her to remain steadfastly innocent...

She ran weeping from the room. Erik, distraught, rose from the bench and followed her into her bedroom.

"Christine! My love, what is it?"

She was lying face down on the bed, her head on her arms, her sobs tearing at his heart.

He sat down next to her, not sure what to do. He was afraid to touch her, afraid that he might lose himself in her beauty...

After a few minutes, she turned to him, and he had to exert an ironclad control, because she looked extremely appealing in her disheveled state, with the most radiant expression on her tear-stained face.

"Erik...You have written the most ravishingly beautiful music! I feel as if my very soul lay exposed in every note! I...don't know if I can sing any of it without bursting into tears..."

His eyes moistened. Moving closer to her, he laid a gentle kiss upon her lips, then moved back.

She blushed. "Did you not say something about the teacher-pupil relationship, Erik?" She teased, smiling through her tears.

He chuckled, gently grasped her hands, and kissed them as well.

"You are indeed a rare and precious treasure, and I feel the need to kiss you...I knew that I had discovered an artist of the highest caliber, the greatest sensitivity...But you will see, I shall help you to be able to sing every note I have written for you."

"How...will you do that?" she asked, tearfully, even as she managed to smile. "I can barely tolerate listening to such heavenly music without being deeply touched..."

"Come, my sweet," he said softly, as he drew her up. "I shall play the first aria very slowly for you, out of tempo, so that you may become accustomed to it. You will only listen, at first. Then I shall help you through it, very gently. You will sing only when you feel the music well up within you, straining to come forth."

She stared at him wonderingly, but went along, back to the organ with him.

Again she stood next to the immense instrument, which towered over them both. She was mildly surprised when Erik pulled a chair over for her, insisting that she sit down.

"Just listen with closed eyes, Christine. Let the music lead you up, into its magic domain. Do not resist its terrible, stormy beauty. Allow it to grow inside you, to become your very breath. I shall play it slowly the first two times, with no lyrics. The third time, I shall again play it slowly, singing the words as well. You will begin to sing only when you feel that you cannot restrain yourself from doing so."

Christine did as he instructed. Closing her eyes, she laid her hands in her lap, took a deep breath, and relaxed into the chair.

The music began, a slow procession of notes now apparently stripped of their power to stir the heart, and yet, compellingly tender...She listened, gradually forgetting that she was listening, even forgetting that these notes were being played by human hands. The music had become a part of her, and now seemed to come from the depths of her being...She now knew what it was to resonate to the rhythms of life vibrating through the universe. She soared, then sank to the earth's burning core. Wings of ice and fire bore her aloft, plummeted her suddenly into the darkness of her own spirit, then back again into its flawless light...

His voice now joined the music, weaving its own virile strength into the melodies that rose and fell through the pulsating air.

Gradually he increased the tempo, making her blood race as powerful emotions claimed her.

She would not remember, afterward, the exact moment when she had stood, as if pulled by an invisible force, and opened her mouth to bring the ethereal melodies to birth. Her eyes were still closed, and her hands now rose and fell with the melodic flow that came from the organ, and yet, was part of her. She was an instrument through which the music poured, clear and pure, without strain, totally free, and she could no more keep herself from singing it than she could have stopped the sun in its tracks.

Her tears flowed, but she did not stop singing, for she could not...so she sang as if their love would die if she did not allow herself to give expression to it. She sang as if her soul would leave her body, taking his own in flight, to enter a heavenly realm...Her voice hit the highest notes without effort, even as he continued to play, his own eyes full of ecstatic tears...

When at last the aria came to an end, she slowly lowered her head, retreating into an almost reverent silence, her heart pounding. Every cell in her body danced, gloriously alive.

She became aware that he had ceased playing, that he was still present in the room, but she could not open her eyes as yet. She was still enthralled, still in the arms of the music she had felt moving through her body.

Erik regarded her with the utmost respect, as one artist admiring another. Christine was truly his twin soul. She, too, was able to enter into the enchantment of Music.

Smiling, he expressed his love for her by singing an excerpt from another aria, one he had written to sing himself.

_When, beneath night's caress, your sweet lips I kiss,_

_my soul on fire as I behold your loveliness,_

_winged passion's flight betrays me, slays me,_

_until one loving look from you shall save me..._

She opened her eyes, and met his as she took a deep breath, smiling. He finished the verse, never taking his eyes from hers. Christine sighed with happiness as one of his hands came up to caress her arm.

"You are indeed a true diva, my love!" His eyes shone with pride. "Did I not tell you that you would be able to sing it?"

"Yes, you did...I cannot believe I was able to."

She smiled shyly at him. 'You...are a true genius, Erik. What is the name of this opera?"

He smiled back at her. "At the moment, it is titled 'Don Juan Triumphant'. After hearing you sing, however, I am considering changing the title, in your honor."

She laughed, pleasantly flattered. "Do you have another title in mind already?"

He tilted his head, lovingly regarding this young, angelic slip of a girl whom he adored.

"Yes, indeed...you are, of course, familiar with Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'?"

She nodded, intrigued, a little breathless now.

"It has just come to me...'A Night's Dream of Music'. What do you think of it?"

Her breath came out in an excited little gasp. "It is absolutely beautiful, Erik! "

"Then it is done! That is exactly what I shall call it!"

He rose from the bench, and went to her.

Had they been standing on a stage, the curtain would then have fallen upon their tender kiss, their loving embrace, as the audience burst into thunderous, enthusiastic applause...


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: If only I had created these characters...especially our magnificent Erik! Need I say more?**

**A/N: Ah, the muses strike again! Enjoy, phellow phans!**

**Chapter 4: A Passionate Confession**

Madame Antoinette Giry sat in front of her dressing room mirror, resting after a hard day's work at the Opera House. She had, as usual, given her best as she coached her young charges, with the notable exception, naturally, of Christine Daae, who was now an aspiring diva. Madame smiled slowly to herself as she brushed out the abundant hair she usually kept rolled up in a tight chignon. She had always suspected that the little Swedish girl would never be a ballerina. Her voice, however...with Erik's expert tutoring, it had blossomed into something exquisitely beautiful, something that would inevitably cause a stir in the opera world, once she was given the right opportunity to show it off. With a frown, Giry realized that Erik was quite capable of forcing just such an opportunity, without first obtaining the management's approval...

Putting her brush down, she brought out the envelope she would normally have placed in the Phantom's opera box. She had purposely not done so this time. Indeed, she had retained it with the full knowledge that its "rightful" owner would come to claim it.

The soft knock on her door startled her momentarily, but then she composed herself. She should not have been so surprised. He had come to get his blasted envelope, exactly as she knew he would...She swiftly thrust it back into her skirt pocket.

"You may come in, Erik, for I know it is you!"

Standing outside her door, Erik smiled, his amusement tinged with affection. She was one of the few people who had never been afraid of him. Not that he would ever consider harming her, of course. After all, he did have his own code of honor, which dictated that he could not touch a hair of a woman's head, and most especially, this one. If not for her, he might have died long ago, at the hands of his cruel circus master.

The door noiselessly swung open, and Erik entered, majestically, gracefully. He was, as usual, impeccably dressed in his evening clothes, with his ever-present black cape. He also brought with him his aura of unquestioned authority. Madame, however, did not feel intimidated in the least. Indeed, she had never felt thus when in his presence. How could she, when she thought of him as the son she had never had?

She smiled sweetly at him, and bade him sit down on the divan, next to her. Before doing so, he gallantly took her hand, and, bowing over it, kissed it lightly.

As soon as he had made himself comfortable, he looked rather pointedly at her, and smiled, but said nothing.

"Well, Erik?" she inquired, smiling in return. "I trust you will explain your visit soon enough. Or is it simply that you wished to congratulate me on the progress shown by my ballerinas?"

Erik chuckled. She was not going to make it easy for him, was she? With an effort, he turned serious.

"You know quite well why I am here. It is beside the point that you handle your girls masterfully. I have always admired the way you train them. Even Christine, who was made to sing, not dance, has reaped the benefits of your instruction."

"Thank you so kindly, Erik. It pleases me greatly to hear you say so."

He began tapping his foot impatiently. Taking a deep breath while keeping his gaze on hers, he finally began.

"Where is it, Madame? For I am quite aware that it is in your possession."

Her smile faded, and she returned his stare unflinchingly. Her chin came up, stubbornly.

"It is right here, in the pocket of my skirt." She patted the pocket in question, but made no move to take the envelope out and give it to him.

Erik sighed, and lowered his voice by a full octave, although he knew she would refuse to be intimidated by this.

"May I venture to inquire as to the reason for this rather unprecedented action on your part, Madame? You have always followed my instructions to the letter."

She had to smile again. "I knew that you would come for it, of course. That was precisely what I wanted, for you see, I fully intend to obtain an explanation of your motives and behavior."

He arched an eyebrow.

"You know me quite well by now, Madame. Surely you don't require..."

Her swift interruption took him entirely by surprise.

"Indeed I do, Erik, in regards to Christine. I am not entirely satisfied as to your designs on her. She is, after all, my adopted daughter, and I'll have you know, she is not to be trifled with and then thrown aside like some common...slut."

There. She had dared to say it, although she blushed a deep crimson as the word left her lips. She had been earnestly leaning forward as she made her little speech. Now she leaned back slightly, greatly relieved that things were out in the open at last.

Erik laughed bitterly.

"Well, well, Madame! The mother hen now rushes to protect her chick!"

Abruptly he arose, and began pacing the dressing room with angry strides. Then, whirling on Giry, he fixed her with a stare so anguished, and yet so terrible, that she could not help but cry out.

"How long have we known each other, Antoinette? You have been like a mother to me as well. God knows my real mother could not abide my presence for a second! But you...you have been the kindest, most wonderful human being in the world to me, rivaled only by Christine herself. How could it possibly occur to you that I would ever harm her in any way? Do you not know my soul? Are you not aware that it burns with love for her?"

His chest heaving with the force of his emotion, he paused, and looked away from Madame Giry, his throat so constricted that he could say no more. With a groan, he sank into a chair next to the dressing room mirror, his head in his hands.

Madame Giry was stunned, and remorse at her accusation swept over her. Never had she seen Erik in such a state. She twisted her hands in her lap, even as she felt silent tears course down her cheeks.

For a few moments, there was nearly total silence in the dressing room. The only sounds to be heard were those of Erik's anguished breathing, and the quiet sobs of the ballet mistress, who had bowed her head.

At length, Madame Giry lifted her head, and spoke softly, brokenly.

"Forgive me, Erik. I had no idea that you had such feelings for my Christine..."

He did not turn to look at her at first. Several long moments passed, as he attempted to take control of his emotions. When he did turn to her, she saw the dried tears on the unmasked side of his face. He tried to smile, but failed. He met her eyes, his own still full of pain.

"Have I become so terrible, then, that even you would think the worst of me?" he asked, sadly.

She looked down again, feeling suddenly ashamed. "Once more I ask your forgiveness, Erik. It is true that you have done some reprehensible things in the past, yet I have never known you to willingly hurt a woman."

Rising, he went over to the divan, and sat down beside her.

"Look at me, Antoinette," he said, gently, taking her hand.

Raising her eyes to his once more, she did so.

"I will have you know that I fully intend to make Christine my wife, if she will accept me. And I have every reason to believe she will."

Madame Giry breathed out a sigh of relief, but then her face turned serious.

"Erik," she said, soberly, "that is very commendable of you. However, I must ask, what sort of life can you offer her? You must first give up this game you play, this whole Phantom charade."

He sighed sadly, and dropping her hand, stood up. "I do not know how I am to do that. Where would I go and live as a normal man would? But I know she will follow me, wherever I decide to go. She will even stay here with me, if I ask it of her. Ah, but miserable man that I am! What of her career? Has she cultivated her voice for nothing?"

As he spoke these words, which were torn from his very depths, he caught his reflection in the mirror. His hands clenched into fists, and he raised one, with the suddenly overwhelming desire to smash it into the mirror. Yet, he restrained himself, for he also caught sight of Antoinette Giry's distressed expression, behind him. Slowly he lowered his hand, slowly he allowed it to unclench. His entire body began to tremble.

Madame Giry stood as well, placing one hand on his shoulder, not caring that he towered over her.

"If you truly love her, Erik..." She allowed her voice to trail off.

"That, my dear Antoinette, is the dilemma I now find myself in. I don't think I can let her go...I know it would be best for her, but it would mean my slow death..." He hung his head as the pain washed over him anew.

Madame Giry squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Perhaps you will find a way, Erik. Love conquers all obstacles, does it not?"

He said nothing, but merely sighed deeply. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he continued, "I must go, Antoinette..."

"Is she waiting for you by the lake?"

"Yes...I will return her to you tomorrow morning, you have my word on it. You may also trust that I will not defile her innocence." As he said this, he turned to look at Madame Giry, his golden eyes moist.

Smiling softly, she stood on tiptoe and gave him a motherly kiss on his unmasked cheek.

"I do trust you, Erik. I know that you will do what is best for the two of you. Will you forgive me for my earlier, foolish misgivings?"

Smiling back, he lifted her hand to his lips.

"They are entirely forgotten, Madame. And now, I must bid you good night."

With that, he swept out the door as grandly as he had entered it. Madame Giry gave a great sigh, and sank back onto the divan. Absently putting her hand into her skirt pocket, she suddenly realized that the envelope was still there. He had not even remembered to retrieve it from her...

Madame Antoinette Giry leaned back fully on her dressing room divan, smiling and chuckling to herself.

Erik was truly, passionately, in love.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: If only...well, one surely can dream, right?**

**A/N: Ah, the muses strike again! Please read and review! Writers, like any other brand of humans, love encouragement!**

**Chapter 5: The Power of the Pen **

She was not anxiously awaiting him by the lake, as he had expected. He was not alarmed, however. Well he knew that she would not be able to find her way back up to higher levels without his guidance. Indeed, he mused, smiling smugly, she would need him to protect her from her imagined terrors of the dark. It seemed ironic to him that he, a creature of darkness, should now be looked upon as a protector in navigating the pitch-black recesses of the Paris Opera House.

He was alighting from the boat even as he heard it bump softly against the dock. He swiftly drew the anchoring rope around the mooring, and walked briskly into the house, pleased to see the glow of a lit lamp sneaking from underneath the door to the parlor. It was very comfortingly domestic.

She did not glance up from her writing when he opened the door, so engrossed was she. He smiled, wondering what could possibly be holding her attention so thoroughly that she had not noticed his entrance. He walked softly over to her, and bending down, placed a tenderly caressing hand on her hair.

He was quite pleased to see her hand pause over the paper, and then lay the quill pen down. She turned her head up to him, her eyes warm with love. She was quite irresistible. Bending lower, he placed a soft kiss upon her smiling lips, then pulled away slightly even as she reached up for him.

"Erik!"

She was frowning up at him, but his curiosity must be satisfied. In order to mollify her, he did encircle her with an arm, as he stared at the sheets of paper on the table.

"What is this you are writing, my sweet?" he now inquired, intrigued. He had never seen her so much as note down an address since he had met her. Of course, he supposed she must occassionally write letters to acquaintances and friends. This seemed, in fact, to be a letter in progress. Whom could she possibly be intending it for?

Her face broke into a smile. "Sit down, Erik, and I will tell you."

He looked down at her, pleasantly surprised. His little diva, that he thought he knew so well...Ah, but then, hadn't women long been rumored to be a complete mystery to the male psyche?

He dragged a chair over to the table, noticing her flushed cheeks, her barely-contained excitement.

"Erik, I am writing...well, I suppose it is a journal of sorts." She suddenly ducked her head shyly.

"A journal? How long have you been keeping one? I have never seen you write anything before." He smiled tenderly.

"Well," she continued, almost overcome by shyness, "I began writing one several years ago, before Papa died. Then, when he was gone, I could not continue. So, I left it for the longest time. My heart was no longer in it..." She sighed, wistfully. "I put it away, and decided to forget about writing altogether. At least, about the events of my life. I wrote poems occassionally. Even those I eventually abandoned. But then..." Her moist eyes met his. "Then I met you, Erik...I have begun to keep a journal again. I...have been recording the events of our relationship."

Leaning back in his chair, he sighed, closing his eyes. An unaccustomed emotion trembled in his chest.

"You are not displeased, are you?" She inquired anxiously.

Opening his eyes, he looked at her with pained surprise. He did not want her to be afraid of him.

"Displeased? Why should I be displeased that you are writing about us? I am pleased and touched, Christine." Grasping one of her hands in his, he brought it to his lips, kissing it lightly, reverently. "Would you mind reading what you've written, or would you prefer to keep it to yourself? I shall respect your wishes. A journal is, after all, a private matter, is it not?"

She smiled warmly at him. "I shall be most happy to read it to you, Erik. I meant to do so eventually. After all, you have every right to know..." Here she blushed even more.

"Well, then, my sweet, let us move over to a more comfortable seat. Come, we can share the divan here, by the fireplace. The flames can lend more light to your reading."

Christine gathered her papers and rose, walking over to the divan with Erik. Once they were settled, Erik turned to her expectantly, an eager smile on his face. Christine glanced at him, still unsure, but heartened by his smile. She was so pleased to see him smiling. Well she knew that he had not had much reason to do so, before she had come into his life.

Good heavens, now that she actually had the chance to read her words to him, she was actually nervous!

"Well?" He prompted softly, amused by her evident distress. "I am sure I will enjoy what you have set down on paper, Christine."

She glanced quickly at him again, hoping he was not mocking her. Somewhat reassured by the interested gleam in his eyes, she began sorting through the papers, looking for the earliest entry among them.

"Well," she said, flustered by his silent, waiting stare. "It seems I must have left the earlier entries in my bedroom! I shall go..."

Erik laughed. "This suspense is killing me! Why not read what you were writing when I entered the room?"

She burst out laughing as well. "I suppose you're right. I have no idea why I am so nervous...well, I shall now begin."

Settling back into the divan, she pulled out the two sheets she had been working on when he unexpectedly surprised her.

"Here is the most recent entry," she said, unnecessarily. Clearing her throat as Erik chuckled, she began.

"I have been to his house many times in recent months. This is a wonder to me, for I am not afraid any more. I am not afraid of him, nor of the dark, nor of this mysterious dwelling by a mysterious underground lake. I remember reading somewhere in Scripture that "perfect love casts out fear". That is certainly true here; my love for this strange man has cast out all fear of him. He is a man like no other, although I have known no other, in my limited experience. He has come into my life, first as an enchanting, disembodied voice, claiming to be the very angel that my dear father promised to send to me, and now, in living flesh, as a wondrous genius who fills my heart with a most exquisite ecstasy...

"I have seen him without his mask. He need not wear it in my presence, although sometimes he chooses to. I see his heart and soul, and that is enough. He is a beautiful, beautiful man, and he does indeed sing like an angel. I have told him I love him, and he, too, has confessed his love to me. I am the most fortunate of women. I have the love of a man who lives for the melodies he hears in the solitude of Music's domain, a solitude he has now shared with me. He, in turn, has the love of a woman who would humbly aspire to be his companion, in giving life to those melodies, as well as in living love at his side..."

She could not continue, for he slid over to her, and took her into his arms. Their eyes met. Silently they gazed upon each other, as the minutes stretched out between them. At last, closing his eyes, he kissed her, his lips moving sensuously, luxuriating in the contact. His tongue probed into her mouth, and she sighed contentedly, giving herself up to his kiss.

When, breathing raggedly, he pulled himself away, she whimpered in protest. Her eyes were still closed in bliss. Opening them, she became aware that he was once again seated at the other end of the divan, not looking at her, as he strained to bring his passion under control.

"Erik," she inquired, tremulously, "are you all right?"

He nodded mutely, unable to speak. Suddenly, he stood, and paced rapidly to a small side table, on which sat two wine glasses, next to a bottle of the best wine he had been able to procure, in her honor. Uncorking the bottle, he poured himself a glass. Picking it up, he took two or three sips, then, as if throwing caution to the winds, he quickly downed it. Pouring another one, he drank it down just as quickly, then turned to Christine.

"Please forgive my atrocious manners, my sweet. Would you care for some, as well?" His voice was a bit hoarse.

She took a deep breath in order to steady herself, fully aware of how he felt. She, too, had nearly succumbed to passion. She had wanted to, with every cell in her body.

"Yes, thank you, Erik," she said, softly.

He filled a glass for her, then brought it over to the divan. She took it from him, but drank more slowly than he had. She felt his eyes upon her as she consumed the wine. When she finished it, he silently took the glass from her, with a questioning look. She shook her head, and he went to replace the glass on the table. Then he returned to his seat on the divan.

There was silence for a few moments, and then, he spoke.

"You have touched my soul, my love". She closed her eyes, feeling every word like a caress. "I will bring you bound notebooks, so that you will not lose a single page. I shall treasure them always. You must read each new entry to me, for I also treasure the sound of your voice. No matter what happens, what the future may bring, you must promise me that you will continue to write."

She glanced up at him anxiously. "What do you mean by that, Erik? What do you mean when you say 'no matter what happens'?"

He sighed, and rose to his feet. "I am uneasy, my love. I may not be able to see you as frequently as I would like. Indeed, it may not be long before we are separated for a very long time..."

"Erik!" She too, rose to her feet, alarmed. Papers fluttered all around her. "What are you saying? Why are you speaking thus?"

He sighed again. "Madame Giry knows of our relationship, Christine. I do not think that she entirely disapproves. Yet, should she mention it to others..."

"You must not think that, Erik. If you believe she is not entirely opposed to it, then you may be sure that she will be discreet."

"Let us hope so. At any rate, I have promised to deliver you to her on the morrow. It is my solemn word to her that has kept your innocence intact. I would not go back on my word as a gentleman. Come, you must get some sleep."

She was about to protest, but he placed a finger agaisnt her lips. "No, my sweet, you need your rest."

Bending down, he picked up all the scattered papers, and placed them back on the divan. Then, turning to her, he effortlessly picked her up, and walked into her bedroom, laying her on the swan-shaped bed. He placed a sweet kiss on her forehead before straightening.

"Good night, my love," he whispered, smiling down at her.

"Erik..." she whispered back, holding out her arms to him.

Shaking his head silently, he pulled down the black, lacy curtain that covered the bed, then walked over to the door, exiting the room noiselessly.

When he returned to the parlor, he scooped the papers up from the divan, taking them into his own bedroom. He crossed over to a chest of drawers, and opened the top drawer. His lips briefly caressed the papers, and then he deposited them inside.

He disrobed slowly, painfully aware of his physical discomfort. He had almost ravished her tonight. The fact that he held his own honor very highly had prevented him from doing so. He was, after all, a gentleman, whatever else the world might think of him.

He was smiling as he lay down. Perhaps his misgivings were all for nothing. He would find a way to make her his bride. He would not allow such a rare and beautiful treasure to be taken from him. Not even if he had to risk losing his life to keep her.

With that thought, he fell into a peaceful slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I dream of you, beloved Phantom, and no one can claim copyright infringement, for I have made you into the image of my own desires...**

**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews! As soon as I get a minute, I will be sending out individual "thank you's"! **

**Chapter 6: A Most Important Conversation **

When the soft knock came at her door, Madame Giry was not surprised. She again fingered the envelope in her pocket, and smiled. However, it was Christine that she was expecting.

"Come in!" she called out.

The door was hesitantly opened, and Christine Daae peered into the room, smiling rather uncertainly.

Antoinette Giry's smile broadened as she sighed with relief. Surely the little diva would not come to see her adoptive mother if she had consorted carnally with the Phantom of the Opera, would she? At the very least, she seemed unhurt.

"Come in, Christine. I have been waiting for you." She held her arms out in welcome.

Emboldened, Christine stepped into the room, but she turned slightly as she did so, beckoning to someone who stood behind her.

Madame Giry felt a sudden little shock. Surely _he_ had not accompanied her?

The door opened fully, and Christine entered, slowly, hesitantly, glancing behind her once more. She was holding someone's hand, pulling that someone into the room.

It was indeed Erik.

Madame Giry sighed. She had wanted to speak to Christine alone, to gauge the extent of her young charge's feelings for this man. Perhaps she felt no more than the usual girlish crush. Having Erik here would make things much more difficult...Her smile had now become uncertain.

The young girl turned to the tall, silent man beside her, and removed her hand from his, looking at him expectantly. He apparently wanted to say something, and she was worried about Giry's reaction. Would she henceforth be forbidden to see him?

Erik sighed, too, feeling his heartbeat accelerate. He looked steadily at Madame Giry, whose expression had begun to take on a tinge of alarm.

"What is it, Erik?" Christine whispered, not moving her eyes from his. She, too, had begun to feel alarmed.

Erik clenched his hands into fists. He would stand his ground, no matter what the consequences were.

"Madame Antoinette Giry," he began, solemnly. She stirred uneasily, and opened her mouth as if to speak.

"Please hear me out, Madame," he said, hastily. "I had but scant sleep last night, as I pondered the course of action I would take regarding your adoptive daughter, Christine Daae. You know of my deep love for her. She returns that love. I have had the privilege of hearing her read to me from a journal she is keeping, in which she has made her feelings for me most clear."

Here he turned to look at Christine, who had taken a seat in a plush armchair, near the ballet mistress. Taking a deep breath, he looked squarely at both women.

"Antoinette, you, as Christine's mother, have every right to know my intentions toward her." He shifted his stance slightly, sighing again. "Quite simply, I wish to ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage."

Madame Giry gasped, bringing a hand to her throat. Her heart began a furious drumming in her chest. She had feared that this would come to pass, but not so soon...

Christine stared at Erik, too shocked to speak, sudden tears in her eyes. Her heart also hammered furiously, but for a vastly different reason. She looked over at her mother, feeling dismay sweep over her at the expression on Giry's face.

A heavy, oppressive silence followed upon Erik's request.

Erik stood before them, fists still clenched, feeling every bit like a man condemned to die. He would indeed die, if the ballet mistress responded to his rash proposal as he expected her to. He would retreat to his lair, and simply allow himself to waste away for love of Christine...And then a rush of anger filled him from head to foot. No, he was not a coward, and refused to die a coward's death. He was asking for permission. If it was not granted, then he would take Christine, for she was his. No one could deny him that which was his.

Madame Giry watched the change that was stealing over the formidable presence before her. She felt no fear for herself. Had she not known of his great love for Christine, she would feel fear for her. Nevertheless, she was apprehensive about the future this man could give to the trembling young girl sitting beside her, anxiously awaiting the answer.

The silence grew longer, and all three occupants of the room seemed frozen into a timeless tableau.

At last, Madame Giry spoke.

"Erik, I am aware of the great love you feel for Christine. She has not, however, made me aware of the same."

"Oh, but I _do_ love him, Mother Giry!" Christine passionately exclaimed.

Erik gave her a tender look. "Allow your mother to finish, my love," he said, softly.

Christine turned glistening eyes upon him, and he smiled at her. The shaky smile she gave him in return warmed him to the very depths of his soul.

Madame Giry now looked over at Christine. She was surprised, and yet, she was not. Although the young diva had not spoken to her about her feelings for the mysterious Phantom, her behavior had made it quite obvious that she was in the clutches of a blossoming passion. Giry could not help but feel pained at the fact that Christine had decided to keep this a secret, and yet, she understood only too well the reasons for that.

"Christine, my dear," she said, solemnly, "marriage is to be entered into by two mature people who are ready for a lasting commitment. Once the ceremony is performed, there is no going back, as you know. Our Church does not allow divorce. So you see, this is a very serious matter. Are you truly ready to relinquish all your dreams and hopes to marry a man who cannot assure you a stable future?"

Erik groaned in anguish, and turned away from them. He had known that she would react like this...

"Christine," Madame Giry continued. "You say you love him, but you see what he is -- a man who hides in shadow. Are you prepared to live at his side, hidden away as well? What of your career?"

Erik's cry of naked despair interrupted the conversation. As they looked at him, astonished, he sank to his knees, overcome with emotion, and curled himself into a ball.

Christine was instantly at his side. "Erik!" She knelt beside him, her head dropping lovingly to his back as she embraced him. Her tears fell upon his trembling shoulders.

Madame Giry could not hold back her own tears. Here she had her answer. This was no fleeting maidenly crush, but a love strong and sure, one that would not be denied. And yet...

She did not know what do, what to say, how to handle this sweeping force that she knew was irresistible. Christine obviously did not care about Erik's face. She truly loved him.

"Christine, Erik..." she called out, very softly.

The young diva lifted her head to look at the ballet mistress, but her arms continued to encircle Erik's shoulders.

"We need to continue this...discussion...at another time. Perhaps tomorrow..." She nervously cleared her throat. "I must go to ballet rehearsals now, and you, Christine..."

Suddenly, Erik lifted his head, and looked up at Madame Giry, eyes glittering. Christine's arms still encircled him.

"Do you not know," he whispered hoarsely, "that I have thought of these things myself?"

Now gently lifting Christine's arms from around his shoulders, he slowly stood, facing Madame Giry again.

"Can you not imagine the sleepless nights that I have spent, my soul at times despairing, at times soaring, swept up in the sweetest passion? I would not love her if I had not considered at length the future I would be able to offer her! My reason tells me that this is indeed madness. My heart, however, speaks a different language, and it compels me to pursue a woman who has touched my world with her goodness, her beauty, her angelic voice..."

Turning to Christine, he grasped one of her hands in his, looking into her smiling, tear-streaked face. Then he faced Madame Giry again.

"I should not have her, yet I must. I know that as certainly as I know that I will die if I do not. It is that simple, Madame. If you choose not to give your permission, then I will take her, for she is mine. She was mine from the very first moment that I looked upon her loveliness."

Madame Giry's hands trembled, and she slowly rose.

"You would take my daughter from me, Erik?" Her voice shook slightly.

"If I must," he answered gravely. "I would not wish to do so. I would much prefer for you to give your consent. You can see that this is not something you can successfully fight against. We love each other. We cannot be parted, not without dire consequences."

The ballet mistress took a deep breath, and attempted a wan smile.

"You do not think my concerns are justified?" she challenged softly.

Erik nodded briefly. "They most certainly are, Madame. If you would but give us your blessing, I would do everything in my power to ensure that they would no longer be so."

Giry smiled more fully. "Very well, Erik, we shall see. I will therefore ask you to wait a year before you are both wed. During this time, you shall prove to me that you intend to abandon this entire Phantom charade that you are currently involved in. I must also expect that you will act as a true son of the Church. That is, if you have been brought up in the faith, which I am not entirely sure about."

Erik's expression became glum. "Alas, Madame, I have not, although I do believe that I was baptized in my infancy."

"Ah, then you must look into that," she rejoined. "But come, we must attend rehearsals now, Christine and I. Are you satisfied, Erik?"

Smiling, he took up her hand, kissing it gently, then straightened, looking into her eyes with warm gratitude.

"Most assuredly, Madame. I shall not disappoint you."

Then, taking Christine into his arms, he placed a soft kiss upon her lips. "I shall be watching tonight's performance, my love..." he breathed into her hair.

He walked backward toward the door, not taking his eyes from hers, and Christine giggled. He was totally besotted with her, and the knowledge flushed her with a heady pleasure.

"Erik," Madame Giry suddenly said, as his hand brushed the doorknob.

He looked over at her expectantly, and then noticed the small, white envelope she flourished in her hand. He smiled knowingly.

"You are tempting me most unfairly, Madame!"

"Do you not want it?" she taunted. "You did come for it two nights ago, did you not?"

"Antoinette," he replied, very seriously, "I know what I must do to win Christine's hand. I will _not_ take the envelope."

He looked at Christine again, and blew a kiss at her. Then he swiftly opened the door, and became one with the darkness of the unlit corridor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own ANYTHING AT ALL...**

**A/N: As I have said, I have toned down Erik's evil side. Well, I've tried, anyway. Muses are muses, though (the word 'muse' is part of my pen name, after all!) , so they are not _too _easily controlled...so Erik is still a _little_ mischievous, hee, hee! **

**Huggles to all who have reviewed thus far! I know I still owe individual thanks to some of you. Rest assured, they will be coming your way soon!**

**Chapter 7: The Butterfly Emerges From The Cocoon **

The audience stirred expectantly. Every time a new production featuring La Carlotta was announced, the majestic Opera Populaire was sure to sell out all its performances. Carlotta herself knew this, and so, as she stood before the mirror in her dressing room, she preened shamelessly at her image.

She snapped peevishly as the little maid laced her up. "Come, dolt!" she screamed in her shrillest tones, "You are too slow! La Carlotta must appear before her public in five minutes!"

The girl ducked her head as if cowed, but suddenly, with malelovent glee, pulled on the corset laces so hard that the singer screamed again, this time in pain. Then, the girl pushed Carlotta down to the floor, and bolted from the room.

"Come back, you little spawn of the devil's daughter!" Carlotta screeched, as she attempted to rise, without success. She managed to take a deep breath -- as deep as she could, that is, with the too-tightly laced corset, and attempted to rise once more. Her voluminous petticoats made it absolutely impossible for her to stand. She could not even bring herself to her knees...

A loud pounding on the door made her heart jump and start a frantic race in her throat.

"Madame! You are to go on stage in two minutes!"

"_Merde!_ " she spat, as she again tried fruitlessly to right her scrawny figure, made artificially ample by the petticoats.

"Help! Somebody please help!" Her voice, already known for its formidable carrying power, was sure to be heard beyond the confines of the dressing room.

For a few pulsebeats, nothing happened. Then, the door opened, quite abruptly, to reveal...a very frightened Christine Daae.

"What is it, Carlotta?" she anxiously inquired, rushing to the diva's side, her heart racing as well. She was already in full costume, and her beautiful gown contrasted sharply with Carlotta's disheveled, half-dressed appearance. Christine's mind immediately suspected some trick of Erik's, but she abruptly thrust the thought away.

"Help me up, won't you, Christine, my dear?" The diva's voice was as smooth as silk, and she actually smiled at the young girl.

Christine was flustered, and lowered her gaze. She admired Carlotta in spite of the cruel barbs the diva had always thrown her way. The woman had never smiled at her before.

"Yes, Madame," she whispered, obediently, and, stepping closer, grasped the diva's arms in order to help her sit up. Carlotta huffed as her stays bit into her abdomen, almost cutting off her breath.

"The laces..." she gasped, as she rolled to one side, "please undo...the laces...I...can't...breathe..."

Christine immediately began to undo the laces. As they loosened, Carlotta began to breathe out in relief.

Again there was loud pounding on the door. "Madame Carlotta!"

It was the stage manager's voice.

"Go and tell him that I am not ready!" she hissed at Christine, who stared at her in bewilderment.

"Go!" screamed Carlotta, when Christine made no move.

Even more frightened now, the young girl quickly got to her feet, and yanked the door open, to confront the irate stage manager.

"What is the matter now?" he bellowed, as Christine cringed before him.

"She is...not ready yet, Monsieur..." she stammered, as she stepped out of the room and softly pulled the door closed behind her.

"Why not?" he demanded, angrily. "What is her excuse _this _time?"

"If you please, sir," Christine now threw her chin up, as she began to get over her fear, while anger now rose within her, "I would remind you that I do not like to be screamed at." She amazed herself as she spoke. Where had she gotten the courage to address the stage manager thus?

Startled, the manager could only look at her. Then he began to smile, a crooked, rather crafty smile.

"Oh, I see, _Miss _Daae...You are now in training for Prima Donna status, are you?" His smile had turned into a sneer. "Very well, then! Come! We shall see how _you_ perform now!" Suddenly grasping her arm, he began dragging her along the corridor.

"Monsieur!" Panicked, she tried to loosen his grasp, but it was useless. He held her firmly. She felt as if her arm were clasped in an iron ring. "Monsieur, you must let go of me! What are you doing?"

"You, _Missy_, are now going to entertain the public until our darling La Carlotta emerges! I have heard you sing before. You have been taking private lessons, have you not?"

Christine paled. When had this man heard her sing? "Monsieur, I assure you, I cannot sing like Carlotta!"

He laughed as he continued to drag her along. "Come, come! You sing well enough, my little dove! Now you will show your mettle, and keep the Opera Populaire from being the laughingstock of Paris! We are _not_ going to refund any tickets tonight!"

"But...what shall I sing?" she blurted out, stricken.

At that point, Moncharmin appeared, having already suspected that his temperamental diva was indulging in one of her antics again.

"What is the matter? Where is Carlotta?" He screamed at the stage manager, staring uncomprehendingly at Christine.

"She is once again _delayed_, Monsieur!" The stage manager came to a stop before him.

"But where are you taking Christine?" Moncharmin inquired, perplexed.

The stage manager, whose name was Michel Goupreaux, sighed. "We have no time, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Daae will sing something until Her Majesty La Carlotta decides to bring her regal presence to the stage. I assure you, this girl is able to do it. I have heard her sing. Now, if you please, sir, move aside. The patrons are getting restless, and they are sure to begin to leave soon!"

"Monsieur Goupreaux, if you please! You have failed to consult with me!"

Goupreaux, rolling his eyes dramatically, ignored him, and strode away, pulling Christine after him.

Moncharmin, stunned, started to follow, when he felt a hand at his elbow, restraining him.

"She is quite able to do it, Monsieur," a quiet female voice assured him.

Turning, Moncharmin was surprised to see Madame Giry in front of him.

"Madame!" he spluttered, outraged. "How can you be so sure? Are you not her ballet instructor? Have you ever heard her sing?"

She looked at him steadily. "I most certainly have, Monsieur," she replied, calmly. "She has an excellent tutor, who has schooled her well."

Moncharmin looked at her as if she had suddenly informed him that she intended to buy the Opera House, singers and dancers included. "Tutor? What tutor? I was not aware that she was taking voice lessons!"

"Oh, but she is, Monsieur Moncharmin," continued Madame Giry, smiling, as she placed a hand in a pocket of her voluminous skirt. Still smiling, she pulled out a sealed white envelope, and handed it to the befuddled Moncharmin.

"What is this?" His bewilderment had given his face a most comical look.

"Your money, Monsieur," Giry replied, as her smile grew wider. "The Phantom is most graciously returning it to you."

"What? The Phantom? Oh, he is gracious now, is he?" His eyebrows drew together, and he peered suspiciously at Madame Giry. "And why in the devil's name is he deigning to return the money now?"

"Ah, Monsieur," she answered, with great satisfaction, "you may rest assured that the devil had nothing to do with it! Indeed, a far more beneficent spirit has inspired this action on the Phantom's part. You may count it, Monsieur. It is all there. And now, I will take my place with the _corps de ballet_."

Even as she said this, the strains of never-before heard music, delivered in a powerful, vibrantly feminine voice, reached their ears. Madame Giry stopped as if an invisible force had rooted her to the spot, while Moncharmin's head went up sharply, and he stared toward the stage, his mouth agape.

Christine Daae had begun to sing.

She had finally reconciled herself to the fact that she was to sing, and that was that. She tried to push down her growing annoyance at Erik. This strange turn of events had his unmistakable stamp upon it...

She did not know Marguerite's arias in _Faust_ well enough to sing any of them, and she had said so to Goupreaux. He had retorted that, if she had been taking private voice lessons, she must have surely learned _something_ that she could sing now, before the opera itself began. Anything to keep the audience from leaving _en masse._ Besides, he added, it would be better if she did not sing something from _Faust_. She would thus not be stealing the show from Carlotta; at least, not completely.

Christine sighed, and consented, although she had never heard of such a thing ever being done before, in the history of the Opera Populaire. Indeed, she was aghast at the very idea. She was to be "the opening act", Goupreaux had insisted, and she had stared at him strangely. He then rushed through the curtains to prepare the audience, and she was left momentarily alone, for no one was standing near her...

She had to come to a hasty decision, and so she did. She knew exactly what she was going to sing...

Now the curtains were parting, and the lights were shining upon her, even as Goupreaux stood aside , bowing elegantly as she stepped forward, her knees shaking. The audience momentarily stirred, as whispers flew rapidly back and forth. She was, after all, a total unknown. Then they stilled, as she gazed out to them through the brilliant lights that nearly blinded her.

He stirred, heart thumping suddenly, in the shadows of Box Five. She was walking into the lights, onto the stage. Unseen, he craned his neck, and his lips parted involuntarily, as his eyes beheld the radiant angel that now graced the center of the stage. She had never been more beautiful. Pride and love gleamed in his eyes. That vision of loveliness was _his. _And tonight, she was being unveiled to the world. He smiled wickedly as he reflected briefly on the events he had arranged. No, he had not harmed Carlotta in any way. Was she not known for her frequent tardiness when her presence was required onstage? He had merely made sure that _this_ time, she would be _terribly _late...

He was totally unprepared for the notes that issued forth from her mouth. He closed his eyes in sweet pain. He had never expected her to choose the aria they had been practicing recently, the aria from the opera he was writing for her...

She was, of course, singing _a capella_, since the orchestra would not have the accompanying music. Her voice rose, unaided by any musical instrument, as the musicians stared in shock up at her from the orchestra pit, as the conductor himself also stared at her, a blank expression on his face...She went on, unheeding, the music taking control of her now, as Erik had promised her that first day she had sung it, in the parlor of his home beneath the lake, next to the magic organ he played so effortlessly...

She was borne aloft by the strange melodies written by a musical genius, a man she loved now more than ever, for he had made her aware of the ecstasy that was music, the heady, melancholy sweetness that brought an inexplicable ache to her heart...She sang without a score before her, for she needed none -- the music and its lyrics were indelibly imprinted upon her soul. Her eyes had long ago closed as she gave herself up to the magical stream of sound, as she was somehow transformed into the golden notes that alternately rose and fell, that eddied like a strong current around the entire space housing the seats and stage.

_As your embrace, beloved, upon my heart doth press,_

_your eyes like pearls are in my memory treasured, _

_forever mine, unto the grave..._

She paused, and his heart flew out to her. His entire being was caught up into a hitherto unknown happiness...

She glanced up immediately, but she saw no one in Box Five. Christine knew that he was there, even if she could not discern his presence visually. She could feel it. He was with her, as he had promised her he would be.

Closing her eyes, she once more immersed herself in the current of music, allowing its unusual, ethereal beauty to envelop her in gentle arms that turned fierce and passionate by turns, unexpectedly. She felt its furious melodies thrust into her heart. Then, as it flowed into more peaceful harmonies, its encompassing tenderness lent her wings.

It was interminable moments later that her voice, after the last rousing crescendo, softly began to descend into a tender, loving lullaby, and then, softly, softly, ceased.

There was a long, stunned silence, during which Christine stood, one arm raised, eyes closed, as she felt her heart slow its rhythms down, while the tears streamed down her face. Then, deafeningly, applause stormed out around her. Eyes still closed, she smiled, and brought her arm down, bowing deeply from the waist.

In the darkness of Box Five, the Phantom of the Opera smiled through tears of joy. His beloved angel had made her triumphant debut at last.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Well, as you know, I don't own ANYTHING AT ALL...**

**A/N: Ah, the "dear boy" now enters the plot...poor thing! He is, of course, no match at all for our exciting, sensuous, tormented genius...**

**Please review if delighted! And, if not delighted, review anyway, as long as you do so in a civilized and constructive manner! (P.S. By the way, I myself LOVE to review other people's stories! Hint, hint, lol!)**

**Huggles to my loyal fans! **

**Chapter 8: Red Death's Duet **

Another man watched, awestruck, from another opera box, as Christine Daae's surprising talent was being revealed to the Parisian opera enthusiasts. He, too, had known that the beautiful young singer hid an equally beautiful voice, but had still not been prepared to be moved as deeply as he had.

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny looked down on her as she bowed, excitement rushing through his veins. He also felt a most peculiar ache in the region of his heart, which he strongly suspected to be a growing affection for Mademoiselle Daae...Indeed, he was totally taken with her. He must press his suit as soon as he was able to see her. Suddenly he found himself on his feet, cheering wildly as he clapped with all his might. Many in the audience imitated him, also rising to their feet to applaud a now blushing performer as she once more bowed, smiling rather shyly.

The young Vicomte's enthusiasm was not lost on the Phantom. Scowling in anger, he stirred uneasily as he watched the aristocrat's response to Christine's singing. Not for the first time, Erik cursed the face he had been unfortunate enough to be born with. Thoughts of doing away with de Chagny began swirling around in his mind, while a red haze slowly descended over his eyes as he glowered at his rival. He unconsciously clenched his fists.

Then she glanced up once more, meeting his eyes directly across the distance from the stage to Box Five. A sweet shudder went through him. She could not possibly see him in the blinding glare of the footlights. And yet...her gaze penetrated him to his very depths. At once the strange red haze lifted from before his eyes, and he felt a gentle peace descend upon him. Truly she was his angel, inspiring him to goodness and light...He could not possibly contemplate any evil deeds while her benevolent influence was upon him.

Although he stayed for the opera itself, his interest flagged. Christine had only a minor role in it. Carlotta, of course, was the star, much to his intense discomfort. He knew that Christine would have done justice to the role, but his promise to her not to interfere had ensured that Carlotta would retain it. He was regretting that now.

As the opera progressed, he found himself losing interest in it entirely. Although La Carlotta sang her best, he was impatient for those moments when Christine would appear, even if only to sing a few bars. The first time she returned, loud applause again broke out, and the conductor had to stop the orchestra until the audience had once more settled into a receptive listening. Erik smiled when he noticed Carlotta's growing fury. Any moment now, he was sure, she would be unable to tolerate any more, and stalk from the stage. In fact, she turned slightly for a brief glance backstage, and he actually held his breath.

An almost eerie silence finally blanketed the theater, and the conductor raised his baton. He held it briefly aloft, then brought it down, and the music flowed, as if there had been no interruption. Carlotta squared her shoulders, and launched into the next aria. The tenor who was playing Faust, Bertollini by name, soon joined in, and a splendid duet ensued. Even Erik had to admit to that. Yet, he never took his eyes off his Christine, his heart aching for her. She had to remain in the shadow of the formidable La Carlotta, while he had to stand by, helpless to prevent it.

Suddenly, the charade became unbearable to him. Surely there must be something he could do...He stood, flinging his cape about his shoulders, and mysteriously disappeared through the wall adjacent to the box.

At the end of the opera, all the performers came onto the stage, in front of the curtain, to take their bows. All in line, they linked hands, bowing to the audience, which continued a frenzy of clapping.

Then someone was heard to shout, "Let the young diva sing again!" No one knew where the voice had come from, but several members of the audience took up the chant, and soon it echoed through the theater. La Carlotta was seen to stamp her foot, while the performer standing to her right attempted to hold her in place. The clapping and shouting continued, however, as people began to rise from their seats. Goupreaux, standing in the wings, motioned to Christine, and she hesitantly stepped forward. Carlotta finally broke. Pulling her hands free from the performers on either side of her, she stormed off the stage, tugging at her voluminous wig. Several other singers followed. The rest stayed behind, uncertain of what to do, as Christine came right up to the footlights.

Raoul could barely contain his emotions as he beheld Christine. He clapped and clapped, his heart pounding. She was simply breathtaking, and he firmly swore she would be his. His knuckles grew white as he again grasped the edge of the box, more tightly this time.

Goupreaux now came from behind the curtain, asking for silence. The audience grudgingly complied.

"Ladies and gentlemen of Paris, lovers of the opera, may I present the lovely Mademoiselle Christine Daae, native of Sweden, and a most welcome addition to the Opera Populaire!"

Again there was loudly enthusiastic clapping, as the rest of the cast, bowing yet again, gracefully made their departure. Goupreaux also bowed to the audience, and then to Christine, after which he, too, exited the stage. Christine was alone now. The stage lights dimmed, and a spotlight now singled her out, much to her nervous dismay.

She did not know what to sing. Should she try one of the arias in "Faust", or one from Erik's opera?

The audience waited in breathless silence. Christine tried to smile, not knowing what had come over her. Had she not sung before the start of the opera? Perhaps Carlotta's reaction to her unexpected triumph had temporarily unsettled her. Furthermore, she was facing performance expectations for the very first time. Fear stole through her veins as the silence stretched out. She seemed unable to move, unable to open her mouth.

Raoul anxiously gripped the edge of the box. The thought came to him that Christine might faint.

Just when he thought the tension in the air could get no tighter, a strong, masculine voice abruptly erupted from one of the exit doors close to the stage. There was a stir in the audience, and Raoul leaned dangerously low over the edge of his box, straining to see who it could be. Christine looked sharply to stage left, clasping her hands as if in apprehension.

A male figure now bounded onto the stage, and a collective gasp rose from the audience. Christine stepped back in fear, for the figure before her was clothed entirely in red, and wore a mask...of Death. The skull looked lifelessly upon her. His cape, too, was red, an intense blood red, and an elegant sword swung from his belt.

The young diva shrank before this grotesque apparition, but he, reaching out, took one of her hands, as his voice, beautifully strong and masculine, yet sweetly seductive, began to weave itself around her, mesmerizing her on the spot. The unknown tenor was singing an aria from "Orpheus ed Eurydice".

As Raoul watched, mystified, Christine seemed to visibly relax, even smiling at the strangely-dressed man. She let him take her other hand, and they continued their duet, their voices blending without a hitch, each forming the perfect counterpoint to the other. Melodies rose and fell effortlessly from their lips as the orchestra now joined them. The stranger's powerful voice never sang over Christine's equally powerful, yet tender soprano. His voice was clearly one to be reckoned with. Raoul could not recall ever hearing such impeccable phrasing, such a wonderfully pure timbre. This man clearly outclassed Bertollini, and indeed, many tenors of the day, even as Christine outclassed Carlotta.

At this point, the aria became more intense as the lovers sang of their fear that their love would provoke the envy of the gods. The man stood closer to Christine, circling her waist with one arm. She responded by turning fully to him, throwing her arms around his neck. They sang thus, face to face, while the man caressed her hair, her cheek.

Raoul realized that jealousy had seized hold of him, even as he told himself that it was all part of this most unusual performance. After all, Christine had been as startled as anyone else by the man's abrupt appearance. The fact that she had calmed, relaxing into the duet, merely meant that she was a consummate professional...did it not?

Reaching a crescendo, the two singers twined their arms tightly about each other, their faces close together. Their voices climbed the notes to an almost humanly impossible peak, and then, as the music receded, stilled.

Again there were several moments of silence as the lovers embraced. The man then pushed her gently away from him, briefly lifted his mask, and picked up her hand, brushing a kiss upon it. Then, as Christine's mouth fell open, he was suddenly surrounded by red smoke, and was hidden from her even as she cried out, "Erik!" The effect upon the audience was predictable. As one, they were once more on their feet, gasping in surprise, then erupting into their wildest applause yet.

As the smoke cleared, everyone could see that the strange man had completely vanished. Only Christine remained, a little stunned, yet with enough presence of mind to turn to her new, adoring public, smiling confidently. The clapping went on and on for a long time, while Christine bowed gracefully, her skirts flowing around her. At length, shouts of "Encore!" began to resound through the theater. More and more shouts joined the first ones, and then Goupreaux was once again on the stage, motioning for silence.

The audience quieted immediately, and Christine breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Erik," she whispered, just before she began another aria, this time from Verdi's beloved "Aida".

It was an exhausted Christine that finally took her leave from the ecstatic audience, to the accompaniment of shouts of "Daae!", "Daae!" Turning, she simply walked through the curtains, and attempted to get past the rest of the cast, most of whom immediately grouped around her, offering their profuse congratulations. Those who did not were members of La Carlotta's snobby clique of simpering admirers. Sadly, Christine realized that, along with her triumph, she had now acquired several new enemies. Yet, it was not this triumph that claimed her attention now. Uppermost in her mind was the man whose heart she possessed. His appearance on the stage had at first completely bewildered, even terrified her. Ah, but once he began to sing, her fears receded, and she was able to join her voice to his...Thanks to his intervention, she had been able to continue her performance. Yet, she could not help but be dismayed at his very peculiar choice of costume. It had brought back the memory of his fury when she had unexpectedly unmasked him, that first time in his home. She was reminded of the fact that Erik was a very complex, completely unusual personality. He was capable of the greatest tenderness, the most impeccable manners, while on the other hand, his fury could be so great that she feared he might not be able to control it, doing violence to anyone who stood in his path.

She walked along as best she could through the crowd of performers thronged about her, shyly accepting their accolades. She was, however, alarmed, although not surprised, by their questions regarding the mysterious tenor who had performed the duet with her. She simply said that she did not know who he was. Then, Claudette D'Arnay, one of the chorus members, ventured to exclaim that it might have been the Phantom of the Opera himself! Christine's heart leaped, beginning a furious thundering in her ears, and for a moment she thought she would faint. She shook her head in denial, but several other company members now echoed Claudette, demanding to know if it had indeed been the Phantom. Christine continued to insist that she did not know the man's identity.

"But you must have been terrified, Christine!" Claudette persisted. "How were you able to sing so calmly? And did I not hear you call him 'Erik'? "

Christine finally met the young singer's eyes, and managed a shrug she hoped bespoke indifference. "I could not very well have done otherwise, could I? The audience would have known immediately that something was very wrong. As to that name, well...it was the first one that popped into my mind, quite frankly!"

She looked away from Claudette as a very familiar voice called out to her. It was her dear friend and stepsister, Meg, waving at her from the wings. Christine did her best to wade through the people pressing on her from every side, without blatantly showing that she was trying to get away from them all.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, she at last stood before Meg, who reached out to her in exultation. The two embraced, laughing uncontrollably, while Madame Antoinette Giry looked on, smiling.

"Well, Christine, you have truly outdone yourself tonight!" Madame Giry was beaming at her proudly.

Meg turned, still laughing, and her mother went toward them. The three of them embraced, then, laughing and weeping at the same time.

"Have I not told you, Christine, my dear, that you were never meant to dance?" Madame Giry managed to ask, as she merrily wiped the tears from her face.

Meg's laughing stopped, so unexpectedly that both Christine and Giry stared at her. The little ballerina herself stared at Christine, her eyes wide. They looked huge in her delicately featured face.

"But Christine..." she gasped, "just _who_ was that strange man clad in red? He was _not_ one of our singers! And he wore a skull mask!"

Christine grasped one of her arms, while Madame Giry grasped the other, and they steered Meg away from the performers milling about the stage.

"It was him, the mysterious one..." Christine whispered.

Meg's eyes grew even bigger. "Do you mean the Phantom of the Opera?" She breathed out, quivering.

"Shhhh! Yes, the very one!" Madame Giry now said, her voice also lowered. She mentally decided to have a talk with Erik about this latest prank of his.

Meg, aghast, looked from her mother to Christine, then back to her mother. She had, of course, heard of the infamous Phantom, yet never dreamed that she would actually see him on the stage of the Populaire. She gasped, then returned her gaze to Christine.

"You must have been terrified!"

Christine smiled as she heard Claudette's previous exclamation unwittingly repeated by Meg. "Yes, at first I was. But you see, once I knew who I was singing with, all my fear disappeared."

Meg gaped at her. "I don't understand, Christine! You mean, once you knew he was the Phantom?"

Christine looked at Madame Giry, who nodded slightly. Christine, sighing, decided to bring Meg into the secret that only Antoinette Giry had hitherto been privy to.

"Well..." she hesitated, then plunged ahead. "This Phantom, you see...well, he is also Erik, the man I am now betrothed to."

Meg had to stifle her incipient shriek, however, because at that precise moment, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny strode purposely toward them, his arms full of the most exquiste, mauve-colored roses.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own wish-fulfillment plots...**

**A/N: Did I promise that Erik would behave himself? Hmmmm. Perhaps I did...Well, it seems that our dearly beloved Phantom has a mind of his own...and he truly enjoys taking mine over! **

**Chapter 9: A Most Unsettling Confrontation **

Raoul de Chagny had waited what seemed interminable minutes to see his adored diva. At last, however, he had somehow contrived to make his presence known to Goupreaux, who had immediately whisked him backstage. The throng had begun to part for the Vicomte, as soon as the word went around that he was the wealthy patron of the Opera House.

Now she stood before him, as yet unaware that he was gazing worshipfully at her, with his arms full of roses that he had hurriedly purchased from a street vendor standing just outside the building. His heart was full. He still could not believe his good fortune in having encountered his long-ago childhood friend here, in Paris, at the Populaire. He was not entirely surprised, however. He had always suspected that she would someday make her mark in the music world. Then he wondered...dare he court this remarkable young woman? He had spoken to her a few times before tonight's performance, but had seen no indication that she might accept him as a suitor. He had not mentioned it to her, naturally. It was only now that he knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that she must belong to him. He threw aside all cautious thoughts to the contrary. He cared not what society would think, what his family's reaction to such a betrothal would be. He cared for nothing save Christine, for the increasing love and admiration he felt for her. For a moment, he even asked himself if he were worthy of her. That thought, too, he shook out of his mind.

One of Meg's hands flew over her mouth, cutting off her shriek. With the other, she tugged hard on the sleeve of Christine's gown, her eyes on the Vicomte. Christine followed Meg's gaze, and was startled to see Raoul walking toward her, holding out a beautiful bouquet of roses, and smiling proudly, his eyes glistening. She smiled nervously as she noticed the besotted expression on his face.

"Raoul..." she stammered, her face flaming, as Meg now attempted to stifle a giggle.

"Christine...you were magnificent! How is it that you had never revealed this wonderful voice of yours before?"

The young diva looked away briefly in embarrassment. She was pleased at his praise, but knew that there lay more beyond his words than simple admiration for her performance.

"Thank you, Raoul..." She smiled again tentatively, as he took one of her hands and kissed it. Then he held the roses out to her.

"For you, Little Lotte," he murmured, calling her by the nickname he had given her in childhood. "They do not do justice to your beauty, but they are the best I could find on such short notice."

Her smile was appreciative this time. He had, after all, gone to the trouble of getting the flowers for her.

"Thank you, Raoul. It is most kind of you."

Before he could say anything more, she then turned to Madame Giry and Meg, who had been silently looking on. To her mortification, Meg was staring from her to the Vicomte with an expression of sheer glee, while Madame Giry looked somewhat amused, if rather pensive as well.

"Raoul, may I present Madame Giry, my adoptive mother, and Meg, my adoptive sister."

"So pleased to make your acquaintance, ladies," Raoul replied, courteously, as he kissed their hands, first Madame Giry's, then Meg's.

Meg thereupon glanced furtively at Christine, and apparently felt reassured that the latter had no romantic interest in the young aristocrat. She then turned an appreciative gaze on Raoul, and batted her eyes at him.

"You look quite elegant this evening, Vicomte," she drawled in her sultriest tone, which earned her a sharp look from her mother.

Raoul felt flustered momentarily, but returned his attention to Christine.

"May I have the honor of escorting you to your dressing room, Mademoiselle, that is, with your mother's permission?" Here he glanced hopefully over at Madame Giry, who sighed, and shook her head as she read the answer in Christine's eyes.

"My daughter is quite tired, Monsieur. I am sure that she would prefer to retire early..." Here she paused meaningfully.

"Yes, most assuredly, Raoul. I am very sorry," Christine added quickly. "I do thank you for the roses. Perhaps we will see each other on a future occasion." She smiled again, in order to soften the blow.

Raoul did nothing to hide his extreme disappointment, but bowed politely in spite of it.

"My apologies, then, if I was too presumptuous, Mademoiselle."

Turning to Madame Giry, he added, "I would like to ask your permission to call upon your daughter, Madame."

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, while Christine looked down, blushing, and Meg fidgeted uncomfortably, wondering why _she_ could not have been the lucky one to have attracted the Vicomte.

Antoinette Giry cleared her throat, suddenly finding it necessary to adjust her chignon.

"My dear Vicomte," she began, "I do believe..."

She was abruptly interrupted by a commotion a few steps away from them. They turned to look, alarmed. There were several loud exclamations from several members of the company, as well as jostling and arguing. A sudden shriek of pure fury was heard above the other voices.

"I will kill her! I, Carlotta, am the reigning diva! This will not 'appen!"

It was obvious that the angry soprano was being restrained, but she was doing her best to reach Christine through the crowd of performers.

While Meg's mouth fell open in dismay, Raoul made a fast decision, and took matters into his own hands. Grasping Christine's elbow, he started to pull her away.

"Which way to your dressing room, Mademoiselle?"

Christine hesitated but an instant, then allowed him to guide her to the nearest exit. She certainly had no wish to encounter Carlotta just now.

"Please," she whispered to Madame Giry as she swept by her, "tell Carlotta that I was seen leaving in the company of the Vicomte, going you know not where." Christine hoped Carlotta would not dare offend the man who was responsible for her considerable salary.

Antoinette Giry inclined her head. She could always speak with Christine later, she told herself.

"Let me through! I will 'ave 'er 'ead, I will, as my name is Doña Carlotta di Benevola Castagnoula!"

The door opened, then closed on the diva's shrill screams, and Christine felt the Vicomte pulling her along a dimly lit corridor.

"Wait, Raoul! You are going too fast! And you don't even know the way!" She was a little breathless.

The young man immediately stopped. "I am sorry, Christine, but you needed to get away from that...that termagant! I can scarcely believe that such a woman dares to even compare herself with you! Indeed, you are so far above..."

"Please, Raoul," she murmured, as they continued on their way, although at a slower pace, "you flatter me too much! Yes, she does have a terrible temper, but her voice is one of the best in the world, if not the best! I can scarcely compete with her. She has so much more experience..."

He smiled at her in the dim light. "Ah, Christine, you are too modest! Just as I remembered! You were always so gracious, so ready to put the welfare of others before your own!"

She felt her cheeks grow warm again, and was glad that he could not see their blush in the dim light.

"Oh, Raoul..." She sighed. "Well, tell me, do you know where you are going?"

He stopped, chagrined. "No, I do not," he admitted, sheepishly.

"Perhaps I may be of some assistance, dear Vicomte."

Christine jumped at the voice, which was very deep, very masculine, and very, very sensuous...Fear seized her throat, and she found herself unable to breathe for a moment.

Raoul immediately drew Christine behind him.

"Who goes there?" he demanded.

"Erik!" Christine cried out, trembling. She feared more for Raoul than for herself, however, since the young man had no idea whom he was about to encounter.

"Ah...my sweet little Christine...have I perhaps interrupted a tryst, my dear?"

"No, Erik, no! He is but a friend from my childhood!"

"Who is this man, Christine? Why does he terrify you so?" Raoul asked her, as his eyes roamed the corridor. He could see nothing in front of them, nor behind them or to either side.

"He is..." Christine choked out, but could go no further. The memory of Erik's fury at her unmasking of his face now floated before her eyes. She tried to push it away in vain.

"Kindly unhand my betrothed, Monsieur." The voice, right next to Raoul's left ear, chilled him to the bone.

"Your betrothed?" His voice was full of disbelief. "But who are you? Let yourself be seen, Monsieur! Or are you too much of a coward?"

"The Phantom of the Opera is no coward, you yammering pup!" Raoul turned to the right, where he perceived the voice to be coming from. There was nothing but empty space there.

"Erik, please!" Christine cried out again.

There was a slight sound, and light flared. Raoul turned yet again, this time to his left. A dark shape stood silhoutted there, in the light of a lantern held aloft by a black-gloved hand.

"Ah, yes, the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny! Did you enjoy the opera, Monsieur? I trust that Mademoiselle Daae's singing impressed you?"

"I assure you, Monsieur, that I had no idea Miss Daae was betrothed to anyone. If I had, I would not have sought her out. But then, now that I see just whom she is betrothed to, perhaps I would have, anyway!"

A menacing hiss arose from Erik's lips. "I do believe I requested that you unhand her, sir! If you are a true gentleman, you will do so at once!"

Raoul turned to Christine. "Christine, please tell me it isn't true! You can't possibly be engaged to this man who hides in shadows!"

"Oh, but I am, Raoul! Please leave, I beg of you! He is capable of the greatest fury, and I would not wish him to harm you. He will not hurt me, I promise, but I cannot say the same in your case..."

Raoul then dropped her hand, but did not immediately leave. His masculine pride prevented him from doing so. Instead, he once more confronted Erik.

"I do not see why you choose not to show your face, sir. You accuse me of not being a gentleman. I, in turn, insist that it is a cowardly man who does not allow himself to be seen!"

"Do you indeed believe it to be so, Monsieur?" Erik drawled, almost casually. "Things are not always as they seem, my dear young sheltered aristocrat. Be glad that you have not had the need to shelter yourself under the cover of darkness. Pray that you may never need its comforting arms! And now, kindly leave us. I would discuss a certain matter with my fianceé."

"I will leave only on one condition, Monsieur Phantom. You shall not harm her in any way." Raoul drew himself up stiffly.

Another hiss issued from Erik's throat. "I am exercising considerable control even as we speak, my dear Vicomte, for her sake alone. Do you honestly believe for an instant that I would harm the woman I worship with my every breath? Now begone, before I am unable to continue to control myself!"

Raoul was amazed at the sudden rush of hatred that rose up within him for this man he had never met, and whose existence he had never suspected. He had, of course, heard some rumors about an alleged Phantom haunting the corridors of the Opera Populaire, but had shrugged them off as typical stories dreamed up by performers. Now here was the so-called specter, in the flesh, ironically enough.

Turning to Christine, he whispered, "Will you be all right, Little Lotte?"

She nodded silently, not looking at him. Raoul sighed, then, defeated for the moment. He was shocked at the unexpected circumstances, but mentally resolved that he would find a way to extricate Christine from her absurd engagement to this madman.

Now he directed his attention to Erik. "How do I get out of here?"

"Simply go back the same way you came, sir," was Erik's reply, delivered with deadly calmness.

"Very well," Raoul replied coldly, as he walked toward Erik. "If you would be good enough to step aside, sir..."

Erik did so, and the Vicomte walked past him with a defiant air. He looked briefly at Erik, whose face he could not see, as it was entirely covered in shadows.

"I shall hold you accountable if she is harmed, Monsieur."

Erik laughed bitterly. "Yes, I am quite sure you will," he remarked sarcastically.

Without lingering further, Raoul continued on down the corridor, leaving Christine alone with her Phantom.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Encountering this tormented Phantom has changed my life, and yet, I do not, cannot own him...ah, but I do, in the recesses of my mind...**

**Chapter 10: The Aristocrat's Declaration**

The silence stretched ominously between Erik and Christine, as they stood in the darkness of the corridor. He had lowered his arm, and the lantern now cast long beams of light over the floor.

At last, Erik sighed, and asked softly, raw pain in his voice, "Is it thus that you betray me, Christine?"

That pain seared through Christine's heart, hurting her more than his anger could have. She was surprised and saddened by the sorrow in his words. Her eyes immediately filled with tears, and she shook her head, her own voice trembling as she answered.

"I would never betray you, Erik, you must know that...I have pledged my love to you. Why would you doubt me?'

Setting his lantern on the floor, he walked over to her, and felt for her face in the darkness, having removed one of his gloves. His searching fingers brushed over a wet cheek, and his already disappearing anger turned into an overwhelming tenderness. Removing his Death's mask, he brought his lips to her cheek, and kissed away her tears as he brought his arms around her. It was then that he encountered the roses in her arms. He stiffened at once.

"He brought you roses, did he?" His anger surged once more.

"Please, Erik..." she whispered, distraught. "He only meant to praise my performance..."

"He means to court you, Christine! I am not blind!"

"My love," she answered, bringing one of her hands up to caress his face, "he was not aware of our betrothal. It is a secret, after all."

"And must remain such, at least for the moment." he countered firmly, as he took her small hand in his large one, and kissed the palm tenderly. Then he sighed. "Come, let us go to your dressing room. We can discuss this more thoroughly there."

This remark carried a hint of menace to her. "What more is there to discuss, Erik? There is nothing between Raoul and I!" Her anger now flared.

Erik laughed softly. "I see my little angel has quite a temper of her own! Come, my sweet, fear not! I simply wish to talk further about this childhood friend of yours. You must tell me more about him, hmmm?"

Taking her arm, he began walking her along the corridor, toward her dressing room.

"What shall I do with the roses, Erik? They are quite beautiful, are they not?"

His grasp on her arm tightened for a moment, then relaxed again.

"You shall not be accepting any roses in the future from anyone except your betrothed," he said sternly.

"But what shall I do with them?" she persisted.

"I care not how you dispose of them, Christine!" His voice had turned quite harsh again. "I will not allow you to have them in your dressing room!"

"Erik! He is just a friend! Am I not to enjoy the beauty of roses given to me by a friend?"

"A friend who would wish to become much more than that! Why are you tormenting me thus? If you keep the roses, he will think you are encouraging his suit!"

She tried to laugh his concerns away. "Oh, Erik, you are so ridiculously jealous!"

"Am I?" He sneered at her. "Am I, really? How very interesting that you should say so! You think it ridiculous that a man such as myself, with a horribly disfigured face, who has only his musical talents, should be jealous of a very handsome, very rich aristocrat who can lay the world at your feet?"

Now she laughed in earnest. "You _are _ridiculous, Erik! I do _not_ want the world at my feet! I want only _you_!" She thereupon reached up to his face, and tugged it down to her own.

Their lips met, softly, softly...Erik groaned as he felt her yielding to him, giving him access to her mouth. His arms circled her waist, and he brought her roughly against his body as he deepened their kiss. The roses fell out of her arms. His tongue boldly caressed her own, and his hands began to roam her back even as her own hands twined around his neck, caressing his hair.

"Christine, Christine..." he moaned, breaking the kiss, then covering her entire face with more kisses. "You are the very breath of life to me! Never, never, leave me...I would die were you to desert me to my endless darkness..."

"Why do you have such thoughts, my love?" she answered, breathlessly. "Dismiss them from your mind! You, too, are the very breath of my life!"

He pulled out of their passionate embrace, smiling tenderly at her. "Come, then, my sweet angel. Let us go to your dressing room now."

He went to retrieve the lantern, and used it to guide their steps. The roses lay forgotten on the floor of the once-more darkened corridor.

Meg shrieked again when Raoul re-appeared, walking toward them. Carlotta was finally bearing down on them, surrounded by Bertollini and her retinue of admirers. Madame Giry braced to meet them.

"Well!" Carlotta snorted in derision when she at last stood before Giry. "So you have managed to manipulate the management to your advantage! Your little brat finally upstaged me!"

Madame Giry narrowed her eyes to mere slits. "I refuse to speak with anyone who addresses me in such an insolent manner! You are a disgrace to this Opera House, in spite of your considerable talent, Madame!"

"Bah! You think too highly of yourself! You are nothing but a ballet mistress! You seem to forget your place!"

Raoul smoothly stepped in.

"Madame Carlotta, may I venture to say that you performed divinely tonight?" He picked up one of her hands, and kissed it with gallant grace.

Carlotta simpered at him, her anger at Christine immediately set aside, although not entirely forgotten.

"Ah, Vicomte, you are entirely too kind! Were you truly delighted by my performance? Yet, it would have been much more magnificent had it not been for that little upstart who stole the audience's applause!"

Raoul straightened, smiling broadly at her.

"The little upstart?' he echoed, as if he did not know whom Carlotta was referring to. "Ah, you must mean Mademoiselle Christine Daae, my protegé!"

Carlotta paled at this remark, and the smile slowly began to melt from her face. "Your...protegé, Monsieur?"

"Indeed!" Raoul replied, smugly. "I have decided to further her career. She has an exquisite voice! Her debut tonight was nothing short of sublime! You, Madame, with your vast experience as a diva, would be in a position to know when a true talent emerges! Is that not so?"

"Well...yes, yes..." Carlotta spluttered, totally taken aback. This was truly momentous news! How had it come about that little, innocuous Christine Daae had acquired such a powerful benefactor? She suddenly smiled, her own expression now turning smug.

"Oh, but of course, Monsieur! You are quite right! She is indeed a most remarkable talent! But..." Her voice turned into a sultry drawl. "I wonder, which of her considerable talents you are most enamored of? Could it be, perhaps, that she is incredibly talented between the sheets, as well?"

Raoul's eyes widened in shock as Carlotta's smile turned into a wicked sneer. Shocked gasps came from all those around her, including Meg and her mother.

"You spiteful witch!" Meg screamed at her, as she came right up to her, nearly spitting in her face.

"Meg!" Madame Giry cried out, horrified, as she pulled her daughter out of the haughty diva's way.

"Madame..." Raoul's voice had lowered, and all could see that he shook with anger. "I had always considered you a lady, a grand dame of the opera. Now I see that I was sadly mistaken. You are nothing but a low-bred guttersnipe, who incredibly happens to possess a most impressive singing ability. How very sad that your abrasive personality detracts from your stature as the reigning opera queen. Were I not a consummate gentleman, you would most assuredly feel the sting of my hand upon your foolishly imperious face!"

Madame Giry held a hand over her mouth, her eyes full of tears, as she looked on, holding an equally tearful Meg with a firm grip.

Raoul now bowed stiffly, and turned to leave. The most oppressive silence followed him as he walked with heavy steps toward the exit. When he had reached it, he paused, and turned to the unmoving crowd of performers. All eyes were riveted upon him.

"Take care, Madame, how you refer to my fianceé in future! You shall not speak thus of her again, or you will never sing anywhere in Eruope from now on! I will personally guarantee that you do not!"

More shocked gasps followed him out the exit door, as Meg Giry gripped her mother's arm just as tightly as her mother was gripping hers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Of course I own nothing...none of us do...but Erik will eternally claim our hearts and dreams...**

**Chapter 11: The Phantom's Flight**

Christine's heartbeats thundered in her ears as she and Erik made their roundabout way to her dressing room, through dark corridors that only he was familiar with. However, she trusted him completely, and so followed his unerring steps. His nearness always affected her with the headiest excitement, the most exquisitely dangerous thrill...

It was just as they were reaching her door that a soft voice hissed out at them from the darkness. Christine jumped, letting out a screech of fear, as Erik melted into the shadows.

The owner of the voice slowly crept toward Christine, calling her name. Christine began to calm immediately as she recognized Georgianne Bourgeault, one of the chorus members.

"I am here, Georgie!" Breathing out a sigh of relief, Christine turned to face the young singer. "What is it?"

"Oh, Christine!" The girl was breathless. She had obviously run to find Christine as soon as she could. The latter's alarm grew as she glimpsed Georgianne's face by the dim light of a gas lamp in the corridor.

"The Vicomte..." Georgianne was still too out of breath, so this was all she could manage to get out.

"Yes, yes, what is it? You are frightening me!" Christine interrupted, her alarm increasing as her heart again began thundering in her ears.

The girl took a deep breath, then blurted out, rather crossly, "Well, is it true, then?"

Christine's eyebrows drew into a puzzled frown. "Is _what_ true, Georgianne?"

"That you and the Vicomte...well, he said that you were his _fianceé_ ! He said that he wanted to further your career, that you were his _protegé..._"

A sudden howl, full of pain and fury, rose from the surrounding walls, enveloping them in its fearful intensity, and the echoes fled down the corridor, even as both girls screamed in fright. Then there was the most complete, deadly silence.

"Erik!" Christine cried out in anguish. She slowly began to sink into a swoon, even as Georgianne started to scream anew...

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He fled along the maze-like corridors, in and out of trap doors, in and out of his mind, his mind that knew what he was, what he would ever be...he was followed by the echoes of his past, the taunts and jibes of the gypsies that had long imprisoned him, the cruel laughter of the circus crowds that had stood, pitilessly, before his cage, refusing to see his humanity. He cursed the day of his birth, the mother he had barely known, the very God who had permitted this travesty of justice to occur...Never would he trust again, he vowed as he fled, in mortal agony...She had betrayed him, lied to him, pretended to love him...He was the world's worst fool...

The Vicomte's ridiculously handsome young face came before his mind's eye. He howled again, the scream of despair. Of course she loved the aristocrat! What was there _not _to love? The young man was not only pleasant to look at -- he had plenty of money as well, although Erik could boast of a plentiful hoard himself, thanks to his monthly "stipend" from the Opera's managers. Still, it could never compare with the Vicomte's wealth, which had been in his family for generations.

His mind roared, and he knew not what to do. That he would never harm the woman he adored, in spite of her lies, was a given. Yet, he had to do away with _someone_. Should he throttle the bothersome young man? He howled again as he recalled his promise to Christine, as well as Madame Giry. He was supposed to be starting a new life, one lacking any hint of criminality...no, he could not do away with the Vicomte...at least, not through outright murder...He could not think, he could not do anything but flee, as if he could escape from himself, from his own monstrosity...And so he screamed and screamed his anguish, and his screams tore through the entire Opera House, so that the members of the company crossed themselves in superstitious fear, whispering that the Phantom roamed tonight...

Madame Giry and her daughter, on their way to their own dressing rooms, shuddered, holding each other tightly.

'_And so the Phantom returns...'_ thought Antoinette Giry, sadly. Somehow, she knew, Erik had heard the news.

He came at last to his own domain. Here he was safe, deep within the bowels of the Opera House. Here he reigned, in his little kingdom of darkness. Here he must go back to his sacred solitude, immersing himself once more in his music...

Swiftly alighting from his boat, he sprang to the organ. He was panting in fury, in deep, heart-stricken madness. He would play, he would make war with his music, he would destroy an uncaring world with his passion, his unrestrained genius.

His hands savagely came down on the keys, and the organ erupted in a violent stream of strident chords. He swept his hands up and down the keys, tearing at them, raping the vast instrument with his murderous fingers. Pipes screamed in protest as he forced air through them. He would let them all know...he would tell them, yes, he would, before they found his decomposing body in the lake...he would let them know that the monster was truly a human being who suffered, who lived and loved and died with one woman's name upon his grotesquely deformed lips...

"Christine!" He screamed out her name as his hands came down on the keys for the last time. He bowed his head over them, utterly spent, and then the sobs came, climbing up from his gut into his throat, and taking possession of his entire body. He wept as no normal man would, for he was a monster with the soul of an angel, a twisted, bitter angel who would never ascend to the very throne of Heaven's Lord...

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She awoke with a startled gasp upon her lips. Her eyes, opening suddenly, roamed the dimly-lit dressing room, to encounter the sleeping figure of Madame Giry, her head cushioned on her arms, her legs curled under her, as she half-reclined in an armchair.

"Christine..." The young diva looked up to encounter Meg's worried face.

"What...?" Her voice came out raspy and weak. "Erik..."

"I don't know where he is, Christine," Meg answered, her distress evident on her face. "Was he with you? You had left with the Vicomte, but then he came back..."

"Oh, no!" Christine's cry prompted Madame Giry to sit up abruptly, hurriedly stand, and rush to the small sofa where the girl lay.

"What is it, Christine? You have given us quite a fright, my dear! Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes...but Erik...oh, Mother Giry, where is Erik?" Her eyes, brimming with tears, fixed upon her adoptive mother's face.

Madame Giry's own eyes brimmed over. Taking Christine's hand, she sat down at her side.

"We haven't seen him," she answered, sadly. Then she repeated Meg's question: "Was he with you?"

Christine closed her eyes, allowing the tears to flow soflty down her cheeks. "Yes...he saw me with Raoul, who had brought me a bouquet of roses..." Her head, which she had raised slightly, slowly sank back onto the pillow.

Meg and her mother looked at each other, mystified.

"I thought...I thought Erik would do something violent...but he didn't...and the Vicomte left...but then...oh, oh, oh..."

"Christine," Meg asked, as calmly as she possibly could, "is it true that you and Raoul de Chagny are engaged? He announced it before all of us backstage."

Christine moved her head violently from side to side, sobbing. "No, no, no...why has he said such a thing? It is Erik I love...why has he done this, why?"

Meg took Christine's other hand, squeezing it. Everything was so confusing...First Christine had told her that she was betrothed to the Phantom of the Opera, no less, and now, one of the most well-known young aristocrats in all of France was claiming her as his own. Yet Christine was denying this. Meg shook her head sadly.

There was a knock on the door. Both Meg and her mother looked over at it. Meg arose, hoping it was the doctor they had sent for earlier.

She sucked in her breath as the door cracked open before she reached it.

"Is it Erik?" Christine asked, her voice strained.

It was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.

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The full moon rode the silvery clouds, and the swift breeze whipped his cape out behind him. He had dressed carefully, in his most elegant clothes. His shining black hair was impeccably styled, and he did not care that the wind ruffled it, alternately flinging it in front of his eyes, then behind his ears.

He had not been up on the roof for the longest time. Indeed, it had been much too long...He realized that he had missed the sharp, invigorating bite of the pure night air. He felt a kinship with the night. The darkness hid everything, even the foulest deeds. The night was his only true friend, the concelling darkness, his only mother.

Laughing, he threw his arms open to embrace the night. Giddily, he turned, then turned again, and yet again, until he had to stop, as dizziness briefly claimed him. A strange happiness abruptly bubbled up in him. Inexplicably, he felt free, completely free. He _was_ the night, in all its ominous, dark splendor. He was a true son of darkness...He laughed and laughed, thinking that he might take wing, fly away with all the graceful majesty of an eagle, into the night's welcoming embrace...

He stood at the very edge of the roof now...he laughed again, and an answering laugh echoed in his mind. Free, so free, he felt. Truly free. He was invincible, his defenses were impenetrable. He was indomitable, unafraid. He peered over the edge of the roof, fearlessly. There was only more darkness down there. Just a short leap, after all...

He stepped back from the edge, frowning. Something was wrong here. He was not indomitable, unconquerable. He was simply a human being...but no, he had been denied his humanity, had he not? He had been scorned and shunned. The woman he loved had chosen another over him. That other was a man with _normal_ features. She would be happier with him, after all...

He brushed these thoughts aside, and took a deep breath. Smiling bitterly, he remembered he was of the night. The night wanted him. He stepped up to the edge of the roof once more, preparing to sail out into the void...


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Well, you know the usual...I own nothing...**

**A/N: Thanks and huggles to one and all who have reviewed! I hope to continue to provide you all with entertaining events, so keep reading, folks! What was that? Yes, Erik, just hang on a sec...I'll be right with you, sweetie! **

**Chapter 12: A Startling Revelation**

Meg gasped when she saw the Vicomte. Behind him, several performers were craning their necks, attempting to look into the dressing room. One of these was Georgianne, whose face was tear-streaked.

"Who is it, Meg?" Madame Giry called out.

"It is I, the Vicomte de Chagny," Raoul answered for her. "May I enter, Madame? I came as soon as I heard that Christine..."

"No!" The young diva screamed from her reclining position on the dressing room couch. "Do not come in! I do _not_ wish to see you!"

The Vicomte pushed the door open further, and strode past an open-mouthed Meg. Georgianne also hastily walked in, followed by three ballet girls. Meg made a rather weak attempt to detain them, but they simply pushed past her. She sighed, and whispered something to Georgianne. The young singer shook her head, and remained where she was. The other girls did the same.

"Monsieur," Madame Giry turned a piercingly cold stare on the young aristocrat. "I do believe Miss Daae has been most clear -- she does not wish to speak with you."

Ignoring her completely, Raoul went down on one knee before the couch Christine lay upon. His face betrayed the emotions churning within him, which were a mixture of dismay, remorse, and love.

"Please forgive me for not asking you properly before making my announcement, little Lotte," he whispered, taking up one of her hands. Christine immediately dislodged it from his grasp, and turned her face away from him.

"Monsieur, if you please!" Madame Giry now rose from her seat indignantly. Raoul looked up at her, anguished.

"Forgive me, Madame, but I must explain to you both."

"There is nothing at all to explain, Monsieur," she answered, with an icy demeanor. "Why do you press your suit? She is already betrothed to another."

Raoul turned to Christine once more, his words tumbling out quickly. "Hear me out, I beg of you, little Lotte. I had to do it this way. Carlotta wishes to be rid of you. You were meant to shine on the stage. So I had to say what I did, in order to ensure that you would be able to continue to sing with no interference from her."

Christine turned her head to look at him with a scornful gaze.

"Sir, you are adding insult to injury." Her voice was as frosty as she could possibly make it. "You announce our engagement, and now tell me that you only did so in order to keep Carlotta under control! Do you realize that you have utterly embarrassed me? I must now deny your lie to the entire company! And what of my betrothed?"

She suddenly began to weep, so heartbreakingly that Raoul wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He had not meant to cause her such distress. Why had he given her such a ridiculous explanation? He did want to make her his betrothed, after all. He wanted it desperately...

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Madame Giry said sofly, "perhaps you should take your leave now."

He arose, anger slowly stirring in him, and faced her squarely.

"Who is this 'betrothed', Madame? You consider yourself her mother, do you not? Do you really believe this man to be an appropriate suitor for your daughter? What kind of man is he, who hides in shadows?"

Meg became restless at the fact that Georgianne and the ballet girls were still in the room, and had witnessed everything. Georgianne's gasp was proof that she had her suspicions about the mysterious man...

"Come, Georgianne, you can see Christine tomorrow." Meg attempted to steer her out of the room, while beckoning to the ballet girls.

"But who _is_ this man?" Georgianne blurted out. The ballet girls were speechless, staring wide-eyed at Christine and Raoul.

Meg looked helplessly from her mother to Raoul.

Madame Giry had become as cold and still as a marble statue. Her implacable gaze bored into the Vicomte's eyes.

"The identity of this man is not your concern, Vicomte. Nor is the possiblity that he may not be the ideal suitor for Christine. My daughter has had a rather strong shock, and she should rest now. There is nothing further to be said. The damage is done, and you may very well have ruined her reputation through your reckless actions tonight. Please leave now."

Raoul stared just as implacably back at her. "I have no wish to see her reputation damaged, Madame. Nor was such ever my intention. I do admit that my words and actions were rash. However, now that the damage is done, as you yourself have said, there is no going back. We should make the announcement properly, just as soon as possible."

Madame Giry's eyes blazed. "Fool! Do you not see? She does _not _want _you_! Now get out, before I have you thrown out!"

The Vicomte was visibly taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him thus. That someone whose social status was beneath his should do so was quite humiliating. However, she was the adoptive mother of the woman he loved. He had to respect her, not only because she was a woman, and older than he, but also because he hoped to enlist her to his cause.

"I bid you good night, Madame. I am very sorry to have distressed you all. Please accept my sincerest apologies." He bowed courteously to her, and to Meg and the other girls, as well. He turned briefly to look longingly at Christine, but, as her face was still turned away, he decided it would be best to say nothing to her. Bowing once more, he strode quickly from the room, his face set in hard lines.

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny had every intention of discovering just who this mysterious dark man was...

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The night breeze was blowing harder as Erik set his feet upon the ledge, determined to jump out into the darkness.

"Is that really what you wish to do, Monsieur?"

He jerked around in shocked surprise, scanning the darkness for the owner of the voice. Although there was a full moon tonight, it hid intermittently behind the clouds. At the moment, Erik could see no one.

Stepping down from the ledge, he stood warily, looking about the roof. He had been so sure that he was completely alone when he had come up here. Who would dare address the Phantom of the Opera so fearlessly?

"Who's there?"

"I would never have thought that the formidable, fear-inspiring Phantom would ever consider suicide to be an option," the disembodied voice continued.

"Show yourself, Monsieur!" Erik hissed, trying to make his own voice sound as menacing as possible.

"I am here," the voice answered, quietly. Then a light appeared. The unknown man was holding a lantern in one hand, which he had just lit. Then he brought it up to illuminate his features.

Erik recognized him immediately. "Joseph Buquet..."

"The very same," the man answered calmly, lowering the lantern, which he then set down.

Erik was puzzled as well as intrigued. "Are you not afraid of me, then?"

"I have never been the superstitious type, dear sir. While everyone thought you a mere ghost, I always knew you to be a mere man."

Erik took a step forward, hoping to intimidate him by his imposing presence. Buquet held his ground, however.

"Just how much do you know about me?" Erik demanded.

"Enough to attempt to dissuade you from taking your life, my friend," the man replied, utterly unruffled.

"Why in blazes should you care whether or not I end my miserable existence?" Erik's voice rose automatically, his anger now provoked.

Buquet shrugged. "I would not like to see sheer genius go to waste," he replied, smoothly.

Erik's jaw dropped. "You have heard me play."

"I have also heard you sing. I know that you have been teaching Mademoiselle Daae, as well. And you, sir, are certainly no phantom. I would not wish you to become one. Nor would I describe your existence as 'miserable', only inasmuch as you yourself may think it to be so. In that you are mistaken, however."

Erik could barely contain his astonishment. "Do you not recall the time you saw me, pulling on the curtain ropes? I had thought you were afraid of me, then!"

"No, I was simply momentarily startled," Buquet answered, with undisguised aplomb. "Now, I would be most interested in knowing why you wish to do away with yourself."

"Why are you here?" Erik persisted. "Why have you followed me? What is it to you?"

Buquet sighed. "I habitually come up here to take fresh air, most especially at night. I have seen you do the same, quite often, in fact. You do not have to tell me why you have contemplated such a dire step, if you do not wish to."

Suddenly, he bent to pick up his lantern. "I will bid you good night, sir, or is it, perhaps, farewell?" He turned to leave.

Erik sprang forward. "Wait," he said quickly, grasping Buquet's arm. The latter allowed himself to be detained, and waited.

"I do not understand why you should care. Really, I do not. The world is not interested in my talent. One look at my ravaged face, and no amount of talent can possibly matter."

Buquet stood, unmoving. "Perhaps it is as you say. Then again, perhaps it may matter, once you allow that talent to be manifested openly, instead of keeping it immersed in shadows."

Erik groaned, dropping his hand from Buquet's arm, and turned away.

"My face is too horrible to behold, Monsieur. I cannot walk freely in society, as any normal man can. I cannot even hold the love of a woman..."

"Ahhh," Buquet exclaimed, softly. "I had thought that might be the reason for your sudden distaste for life. That is never a good reason to die, my dear Phantom. Some women can be quite unpredictable, even with so-called 'normal' men."

"You do not understand!" Erik's voice was strained, anguished. "She is my very life! I do not wish to go on without her love!"

"And are you quite certain that you do not have it, Monsieur le Fantôme?"

"She has already chosen another!" Erik roared. He wanted to strike the man down, but restrained himself. Even now, he would honor his promise to Christine and Madame Giry.

"I assume you are referring to Mademoiselle Daae. Is that not so?"

Erik groaned again, saying nothing more.

"I see. Well, sir, I will lay your mind to rest on the matter. She has most certainly _not_ chosen another, I can assure you."

"Why do you torment me thus, man?" Erik whispered.

"I was there, watching from the catwalks above," Buquet rejoined. "The Vicomte arrived backstage, and congratulated Carlotta, only to have her insult Christine by calling her his mistress. He then impulsively announced the engagement. I did not, however, see Mademoiselle at his side, confirming the news. I would venture to say that she knew nothing about it."

Erik's heart started hammering so hard, he feared he would have an attack.

"Are you quite sure of what you say? Or is this meant as further torment?" He found that his hands were around the man's neck, of their own volition.

"Quite sure, Monsieur," Buquet replied, staring straight into Erik's eyes with an infuriating calmness. "Should I not know my own niece? She is indeed in love with you, make no mistake about it."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: The rights all belong to those famous names we all know so well...which does not prevent my imagination from weaving new tales about our favorite characters! **

**Chapter 13: In the Opera Managers' Office**

"_Sacre bleu!_ " Moncharmin was pacing the length and breadth of the managers' cluttered office, hands clasped behind his back. His normally unruffled demeanor had given way to an agitation that was most unlike him.

Three days had passed since the wildly acclaimed, yet perplexing, first performance of the season. Christine Daae had adamantly refused to leave her dressing room, and only allowed Madame Giry and her daughter Meg to attend to her. Needless to say, La Carlotta had been most delighted by this latest development in the saga of the budding rivalry between the young singer and herself. She had thus gleefully strived to give her very best in the subsequent presentations, now confident that no one would steal her shining light. To her extreme displeasure, however, audiences continually clamored for Christine's appearance.

"What are we to do with her?" Moncharmin bellowed suddenly, whirling to stab a look of pure annoyance and anger at his partner, Monsieur Richard.

The latter shrugged with typically Gallic indifference. "I do not see why you are so distressed over all this, _mon ami_. Do you not know that every opera house and theater renowned for its performances has accumulated a host of scandals and supernatural legends on its road to fame?"

Moncharmin's face paled as he stared at his partner in abject dismay.

"But do you not see the consequences of all this? The accusation brought by Carlotta has stained Mademoiselle's character. And the fact that the Vicomte rushed to her rescue makes the whole thing highly suspicious! Not to mention the even more horrendous possibility that this accursed Phantom may be her real lover! "

"Yet, she has made a most astounding debut..."

"Yes, to be sure, but she has then proceeded to ruin everything! Once these rumors about her start to circulate among high society gossips, if they haven't already, you may be certain that we shall see a decline in attendance!"

"Oh, posh," rejoined Richard, "you are being entirely melodramatic! I tell you, if anything, they will serve to _increase_ the attendance! I daresay that..."

A timid knock on the door interrupted him.

"Who is it? " Moncharmin called out.

A very musical, yet apprehensive, female voice answered. "It is Mademoiselle Daae! "

"Ah," said Moncharmin smugly, " here comes our wayward little _ingenue_. You are prepared, Monsieur Lestrade, I trust?"

Here he turned to fix a piercing glance upon the man sitting in a chair placed in a darkened corner of the room. He had been observing and listening without comment while Moncharmin raged. Now, he assented with his head, not saying a word.

"Now, now, my dear fellow," Richard ventured to say to Moncharmin sheepishly, "do you truly believe it was quite necessary to bring in the police to deal with this matter?

Moncharmin merely glared at him. This silenced his partner immediately.

"You may enter, Miss Daae! " he called out again, in a peremptory manner.

The door slowly opened, and the young diva shyly peeked in. Her eyes first met those of Moncharmin, reading the severity of the matter there. Then she turned her gaze pleadingly upon Richard, who looked away uncomfortably. She then turned her eyes downward, while she remained half in and half out of the room, seemingly rooted to the spot.

"Come, come, Miss Daae! " exclaimed Moncharmin impatiently, stepping forward to pull her unceremoniously into the room. "We have much to discuss! "

" Moncharmin! " Richard's astonished voice broke in. "Restrain yourself! Never have I seen you treat a lady so roughly! Unhand her at once, do you hear?"

Moncharmin stiffened at this, but dropped his hand from Christine's arm, which he had been holding tightly. She began to rub it, and her eyes snapped angrily up to his.

"My apologies, Mademoiselle," he muttered, his face hard as marble. "Do come in and sit down, if you please." He motioned to a divan near the door. Christine reluctantly did as she was bid, her heart beating wildly. She suspected that she was in a great deal of trouble, and bitterly resented it. None of it had been her own doing. She suddenly wished she had never set eyes on the Vicomte, or even Erik, for that matter.

She sat on the edge of the divan, every muscle in her slim body taut with anxiety. Her heart skipped a beat or two when she became aware of the third occupant of the already claustrophobic office. She dropped her gaze demurely when she realized that he was studying her intently, wondering whether he was a patron of the opera, who had come in to complain to the managers. If so, her very reputation, not to mention employment, were at stake.

"Now that you are comfortably seated, Mademoiselle," Moncharmin began with exaggerated courtesy, "we may be able to shed some much-needed light upon the events of a few days ago, with your assistance, of course. I may count on that, I presume?"

Christine nodded silently, as she tried not to fidget. She looked at him warily, made uneasy by his sarcasm.

"Now, then," Moncharmin went on, taking a deep breath, "would you kindly explain to these gentlemen, as well as to myself, the true nature of the relationship between the Vicomte and yourself, as well as to the man rumored to be the Phantom of the Opera? You are said to be betrothed to our disreputable ghost."

Christine gasped, feeling as though she had been punched in the stomach. She had to stop herself from flying to Erik's defense. "Monsieur, I do not..."

Moncharmin continued as if she had not spoken. "You do realize, of course, that this man, this so-called Phantom, has been extorting money from the management for a very long time. As long as everyone thought him to be a mere spirit, we dared not attempt to apprehend him. He held us all in fear of his supernatural retribution."

"Of course," Richard interrrupted, " we should have come to the conclusion that, since ghosts are immaterial, they would have no need of money, so therefore, he could not have been one."

Moncharmin's icy glare silenced him yet again. "If I may proceed..." His tone had turned menacing.

To the great surprise of everyone present, Richard now rose to his full, if rather meagre, height.

"We _should_ have realized that he was _not_ a ghost, I tell you! We could have stopped giving him money long before now, and there would be no need now for any of this! "

"Richard! " Moncharmin was beside himself with fury. "Have you forgotten all the mishaps that have mysteriously befallen several of our performers, most notably Carlotta, whenever we have been reluctant to give him his money?"

"Ah, but don't forget, he returned his last so-called 'payment' to us! " answered Richard triumphantly.

"That means nothing! I do not trust this personage! Now that we have conclusive proof that he is a flesh-and-blood person, and not a wisp of air, he must be brought to account for his crime of embezzlement! Let us be glad that he has seen fit to do nothing more serious than that, if we choose to ignore the backstage mischief he has also been responsible for!"

" Gentlemen," the voice of the man seated in the corner now broke in, "if we could please continue with the interrogation..."

"Interrogation?" Christine's voice trembled with fear and outrage. "You have requested my presence here in order to interrogate me? Why did you not tell me this before?"

"You would most certainly have refused to appear," Moncharmin replied, sourly.

"I should say so! " She indignantly rose to her feet. "What is the purpose of this interrogation? What have I done, or what do malicious tongues accuse me of doing?"

"Calm yourself, Miss Daae," Moncharmin answered, soothingly. "Please sit down. You are not being accused of anything, although Carlotta's allegations of an illicit liaison between you and our illustrious patron are indeed scandalous. But there is the Phantom to consider. We now know him to be a man, and not a spirit. He sang on the stage with you. Indeed, you seem to know him quite well. Furthermore, we have even been informed that he is your betrothed! Now, you yourself must admit that this is all very alarming. Our image before the public is in grave danger of being tarnished, as you must realize. You are said to be dallying with two men at the same time. While this could be pardoned as being your personal business..."

At this point, Christine once more jumped to her feet in indignation.

"Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, I refuse to stay here and be insulted! You know that..."

Richard was quick to jump to his feet as well, and was at her side in an instant. Taking her hand gently, he said soothingly, "We are well aware of your unsullied reputation, Mademoiselle. You are a rarity among opera performers, in that you are not one to flit callously from lover to lover, as other famous divas have done. However, the important thing here is discretion. Even Carlotta realizes that! You must admit, Miss Daae..."

"I must admit _nothing, _Monsieur! Carlotta has always been jealous of my talent! She cannot believe that the Vicomte would place me under his protection for noble reasons! Everything she has ever said about me has been a malicious lie, and _both _of you must be aware of that!"

Richard glanced painfully at his partner, who sighed in exasperation.

"Well, Mademoiselle," Moncharmin now continued, "there is still the matter of the Phantom. You know that this man has stolen quite a bit of money from us, taking advantage of our credulity and fear. Surely you can see that he must be stopped."

He paused, allowing her some time to think. "Well?" he demanded, at her stretched-out silence.

Christine took deep breath, but did not immediately answer.

"Mademoiselle," Moncharmin gritted out betwen clenched teeth, "I demand an answer from you!"

Christine swallowed, visibly shaken. When she looked up at him, her lips were quivering slightly, but she kept her gaze on him.

"About the Vicomte...it is true that we are...engaged, Monsieur. That is the true nature of our relationship. There is nothing more. He has not dishonored my virtue. Indeed, he is too respectful to even think of doing such a thing. As to the Phantom, I do not know anything about him. I had previously heard of him, of course, but I had assumed him to be a spirit, just as the rest of the opera house staff has always said. His sudden appearance on the stage took me entirely by surprise, I assure you. Had I betrayed my astonishment and fear, however, the whole audience would have been affected. I do believe the entire performance would have been compromised, Monsieur."

As she finished speaking, she continued to stare at Moncharmin, with such a limpid, clear gaze that he began to feel ashamed of himself. In his experience with the young diva, he had always perceived her to be a sweet, pure girl, untainted by rumors of any base indiscretions. He sighed, and looked toward his partner, who shrugged helplessly.

Turning back to Christine, he asked, in a gentler tone, "Have you any idea, Mademoiselle, of the whereabouts of this Phantom? Any idea as to where he likes to hide?"

Christine's hands had begun to sweat, but she knew that, were she to wipe them on the skirts of her gown, she would be betraying herself. She was sure that they wanted to believe her. She must cling to that.

"Monsieur, as I have told you, he took me entirely by surprise. I fear him just as much as anyone else does. Why would I know where to find him? I would not be at all eager to further my brief acquaintance with him!" She tried to shudder convincingly as she said this. After all, was she not an actress just as much as she was a singer?

Moncharmin sighed yet again. He was totally chagrined now. He could not look her in the face, and turning, sank into a chair behind his desk, feeling very unsure of himself at the moment.

The police commissioner spoke quietly from his chair in the corner. "I believe that is all, Mademoiselle Daae. We would like to thank you for your time and cooperation in this matter. Please do advise the managers of any future appearances of this Phantom, should they occur. You may leave now."

Christine blinked at him, disbelieving.

"You may indeed leave, Miss Daae," confirmed Moncharmin from his seat, with a beleaguered expression.

Christine slowly rose, shaking her skirts about her. She walked the short distance to the door with a firm step, although her insides were quaking. As her hand fell upon the doorknob, Richard's voice stopped her briefly.

"Do give our regards to the Vicomte." The little man had also stood, and was bowing obsequiously. Not to be outdone, Moncharmin also rose, and walked over to the door.

"My most sincere apologies, Mademoiselle," he said slowly, his voice full of regret.

Christine attempted a smile she did not wish to bestow on him. "They are accepted, Monsieur. Good day to you."

"Good day to the future Vicomtess, with my most sincere congratulations. We all look forward to the official announcement."

She attempted another smile, then curtsied gracefully. Moncharmin then took up her hand, kissing it lightly, and she withdrew. He stood for a few moments, watching her walk away, until she disappeared behind a corner. Then he slowly and thoughtfully closed the door. At last, he turned to the other two men, his expression morose and thoughtful.

"Well, gentlemen? he asked, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"I knew that a creature of Miss Daae's irreproachable moral character could not possibly be guilty of any sordid wrongdoing!" Richard's own expression was gleeful.

The commissioner rose calmly, and his next words astounded one of the managers, but not the other.

"She is lying, of course. She may or may not be engaged to the Vicomte, but she does indeed know the Phantom, and very, very well, I assure you, gentlemen. It seems that she is trying to protect him. She may not be as innocent as you obviously believe, Monsieur Richard. I myself find her to be most charming, with a rather innocent air. However, let us not forget that performing in an opera does call for acting skills, and our little diva would be expected to possess them, would she not?"

"So what shall we do, then? We are back to where we started!" wailed Moncharmin.

"Nothing, for the moment."

"Nothing?" Moncharmin could not believe the man's apparent nonchalance.

"That is precisely right, my dear fellow. Nothing except keep an eye on her. I hold you both responsible for her subsequent behavior. Do let me know of anything suspicious, naturally. Meanwhile, I shall instruct my men to conduct a very careful, very discreet search of the entire Opera House."

"I don't think that will be possible, Monsieur!" Moncharmin's distress was quite evident. "We are rehearsing constantly, and moving scenery about, from the stage to storage..."

The commissioner glared at him, then shrugged. "Very well, if you do not wish the Phantom to be found..."

"Oh, but we most certainly do, Monsieur Lestrade!" both managers echoed, together.

"_C'est bien. _My men will commence at once. I will therefore bid you good day, gentlemen."

Bowing respectfully to them, the commissioner took his leave.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: Well, blast it! Why couldn't I have dreamed him up? Why not? Woe is me... **

**Chapter 14: The Lover Scorned **

Raoul de Chagny stood at his balcony window, his arms on the railing, his eyes unseeing as all of Paris bustled about in the piercingly clear morning light. He could see her face so vividly in his mind...still hear her agitated breathing, her shrill voice, raised in anger at him, the Vicomte, who adored her with a passionate intensity...

Unexpectedly, he belched. Bringing a hand up to his forehead, fruitlessly attempting to erase the pounding ache there, he began to wonder, in a dazed sort of way, why he was standing on his balcony, staring out into the blinding daylight, enduring the noise of the city. He turned, as wearily as a very old man, and shuffled back into his bedroom, where he collapsed on the bed, after nearly tripping over two bottles of the very finest bourbon that the city so generously provided.

He, the Vicomte de Chagny, known to be one of the richest young men in all of France, had gotten as drunk as the proverbial skunk the previous night. He was just another young suitor rejected by the woman of his dreams...

He belched again, and groaned in utter disgust, throwing an arm over his aching head. Just then, he remembered to be grateful that _Maman_ was in the country on holiday. Otherwise, she would surely have been apprised of the matter quite speedily.

A knock on the door put a temporary end to his gloomy thoughts.

"I am not in!" He smiled briefly at his own ridiculous attempt at humor.

The door opened abruptly, and his butler strode in without announcing himself. Raoul sighed. James had suitably British aplomb, but, having attended his master since the tender age of five, considered himself an uncle of sorts.

"Raoul! You simply cannot continue with this...this..." He sputtered, unable to proceed.

"This what, James? You will not convince me that you have never been spurned by a woman in your entire life!"

James winced as the barb hit home, but did his best to conceal its effect from the young man.

"But, my dear boy, you are neglecting your duties at the château! This is totally irresponsible! Forget this woman, and seek another! You are young, and very much desired by all the gently-born ladies in Paris! Indeed, your _maman_ her ladyship says..."

"I am not at all interested in what her ladyship says, and don't "dear boy" me! My heart will have no other woman! It belongs completely to Christine Daae!"

James shook his head as he walked further into the room, and saw the discarded bottles on the floor. Bending to retrieve them, he could not help smiling to himself as he recalled his own identical behavior, years ago, in London. He remembered his own despair when Claire, the most beautiful girl in the lower East End, had calmly told him that she had chosen another...

Straightening, James pulled the little smile from his face, and brought back his stern look.

"Really, Master Raoul, this will not do at all. I will instruct Cook to prepare some tea, and you will drink it when I return with it. The tea will settle your stomach, and soothe the headache. Then, you must make an effort to be up and about, do you hear?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" Raoul sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching. Honestly, James was worse than Madame de Chagny now! He had become an old mother hen.

There was another knock on the door.

"Who is it now?" Raoul could not help but allow his irritation to seep into his voice.

"If you please, sir," a very young voice was heard through the door. "There is a message for you."

James went to the door, and opened it. A young footman stood there, with a slip of paper in his hand. James took it, and thanked the footman, then shut the door. He could not resist opening the message. As he read it, his eyes began to open wider and wider, of their very own accord.

"Well, James, what is it? I know very well that you are reading it, so tell me already!"

James swallowed hard, and shook his head in disbelief.

"She wants to see you, Master Raoul! She...begs your forgiveness, and adds that she would be most honored to..."

He was unable to finish, for the Vicomte bounded from the bed, and tore the missive from the butler's hands. Attempting to hold the paper without too much shaking, Raoul ran his eyes over it hurriedly. He had to re-read it three times in order to absorb its meaning. When he was totally satisfied that he had truly understood it, he looked up at James, who was staring at him expectantly.

"Kindly lay out my clothes, James, and have the carriage brought round. I must see her at once!"

"But she is requesting your presence this evening, Raoul! Surely you can wait until then!"

The Vicomte glowered at him.

James was about to add something, but then decided that his opinion would be most unwelcome at that particular moment.

"Yes, Master Raoul," he muttered, turning to an armoire located next to the balcony. As he opened the door, he was astounded to hear Raoul launch into an aria from "Lucia de Lamermoor".

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"Well, where is she?" Goupreaux bellowed, while Carlotta and her clique giggled delightedly.

Goupreaux turned on the haughty soprano. "So! I am not surprised to discover that this was _your_ doing, you arrogant excuse for a diva!"

Carlotta's face reddened, and she spluttered in rage. "I am most certainly _not_ responsible for this, Monsieur! How can you possibly entertain the notion that I would do _anything_ to harm Mademoiselle Daae?"

"Oh, I can _definitely_ entertain the notion, Carlotta!"

She turned away, pouting. "Well, then, we simply _must_ continue the rehearsal without her, Monsieur!"

Carlotta's adoring little clique simpered.

"Where _is_ she? Richard and Moncharmin will have your head for this!"

At that point, Meg Giry, her eyes full of tears, ran from the stage, on her way to Christine's dressing room.

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Christine had looked at the message with a frown. Raoul was requesting that she see him, letting no one know that she was doing so. Could this be a ruse? It made no sense for him to reply to her own message in this manner. She had, after all, begged his forgiveness, requesting that _he_ see _her. _Could this message really be from someone else? Her heart fluttered. From Erik, perhaps? Was he testing her? He must have heard the news by now. She had immediately let it be known that she had supposedly changed her mind about the Vicomte. In fact, she had made sure to tell Cherise, whom everyone knew could not keep a secret. She had breathlessly whispered to the young ballerina that Raoul de Chagny would be making the official announcement very, very soon...

She had come to an immediate decision. She would ignore the message. If nothing happened, she would know that it had not been sent by Raoul at all. He was probably even now on his way to the Opera House, in response to her previously sent letter.

She looked at the paper again.

"Meet me at the Tuileries tonight, after sunset. Tell no one of this. I await you impatiently, my love. Yours, Raoul"

If Erik wanted to meet her, why did he not use his own name? Perhaps he was, indeed, testing her. But then, perhaps the missive had been penned by Raoul. She sighed. She was supposed to be leading suspicion away from Erik, was she not?

She glanced at the small clock on her mantlepiece. It was nearly noontime. She had more than enough time for this meeting, if she chose to go. First she would attend to lunch. There was a new restaurant, on the Rue de Marbouse, that she had been meaning to investigate. After that, she would go to the rehearsal.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she hastily made a different decision. She would go to the park. If the message had truly come from Raoul, then she would have to go on with her charade. If it had, in fact, come from Erik, then she would have to do her best to explain the situation to him.

She picked up a brush and ran it through her abundant tresses a few times. After giving herself a quick visual inspection, she turned, noiselessly slipping out of her dressing room.

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She had never meant to stay at the restaurant for such a long time, but then she had unexpectedly run into a long-time admirer.

The Count of Duchesne had reserved a table for himself and his cousin, the young Albert de Maurier. They had asked her to join them, and she could not politely refuse, even though she was mortified by the Count's obvious interest in her as a woman.

He gallantly insisted on paying for her meal, in spite of her repeated refusals. Both the meal and its accompanying conversation stretched out to the point that she knew she would never make it to rehearsal if she did not attempt to leave soon. She was unsure as to how to do this courteously, without offending the Count.

Smiling, she raised her wine glass, which had already been re-filled at least three times, in a toast to the Count and his cousin. They both smiled in return, quite pleased. The Count was most especially pleased.

"May I request the pleasure of your company at dinner this evening, Mademoiselle Daae?" He was utterly smitten. The cousin snickered, nodding his head.

Christine ducked her head in heated embarrassment.

"I am so sorry," she murmured, "but I already have a previous engagement. I cannot cancel it, as the person involved wouldl be quite disappointed."

"Ah! Then I trust there is another admirer on the horizon! I am not surprised to see that I have competition, Miss Daae. Why, it has been rumored of late that the Vicomte de Chagny is quite taken with you. Is that not so?"

She ran her fingers lightly around the rim of the wine glass, not lifting her eyes to his. Then she sighed, composing a smile, and looked up.

"Yes, that is so."

"And might I guess that your 'previous engagement' involves him?" His smile was quite wicked now.

Christine blushed harder. "Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, sir. If you will please excuse me..."

The Count's face darkened briefly. "I am loath to allow your loveliness to slip away so soon, Mademoiselle. I would like to secure a promise from you before you take your leave."

"A...promise?" She stared at him,puzzled.

"You must have dinner with me, in the very near future, and I will not accept a refusal."

"Oh...very well, then, I suppose..."

"Mademoiselle! You do not seem very pleased at the prospect, I see!"

She had never felt so embarrassed in her entire life, and could think of nothing to say.

The Count sighed dramatically. "Ah, yes, well, it does appear that the Vicomte has a rather strong hold on your emotiions at present. The invitation stands, nonetheless. He will simply have to tolerate it, will he not?"

She smiled nervously. "I...really must...leave now, or I shall certainly be late, Monsieur. I do have rehearsals to attend, you must know."

His smile was dazzling. As she started to stand, he swiftly went to her chair, and, taking both of her hands, helped her up. Then he bowed, placing a gentle kiss on her right hand.

"You have given me a most enchanting afternoon, Mademoiselle Daae. I really must insist on seeing you again. My footman will be sending you a formal invitation as soon as I return to my chambers to write it."

"I thank you for your kindness, Monsieur."

She smiled at the cousin, who had also risen, and now took up one of her hands to place a kiss upon it.

"We are looking forward to your next performance, Mademoiselle." His eyes shone suspiciously, and Christine groaned inwardly. What had she done to attract so much unwanted attention?

"My carriage will take you back to the Opera House, Mademoiselle."

She was instantly alarmed. "Oh, but that won't be necessary, sir."

"Well, I shall call a carriage for you, then. I understand. You would not want to be seen arriving with me." He winked at her.

The Count offered his arm. Christine had no choice but to take it, trying to ignore the countless pairs of eyes that she was aware were on the two of them. They walked to the restaurant entrance, followed by the young cousin.

She could not possibly arrive at the Opera House in time for the rehearsal now. It was already quite late.

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The man slipped behind a bush near the entrance to the park, hoping that there would be no moon tonight. Enveloped in his black cloak, he was confident that he would remain unseen. He wanted to take no chances, after all.

Tonight he would know, tonight he would be sure. If she responded to the message by coming to the park, he would know that she had in fact betrayed him. Her fate would then be sealed, for he could tolerate no rivals.

Although the sun would not go down for at least another hour, his impatience had been such that he had felt compelled to leave for the park much earlier than he had intended.

The sun began its slow descent as he waited, flexing and unflexing his fists. Why, he wondered, had he decided to subject himself to this torture?

After what seemed to him an excruciatingly long time, he heard the sound of horses' hooves clattering on cobblestones, as well as the low, sharp command to come to a stop. By this time, it was pitch black. There was a quarter moon tonight, but it was cloudy as well, so it was more than dark enough to suit his purposes. Peering toward the park's entrance, he was able to discern a dark silhouette that could only be a carriage. Then he heard the muffled conversation between the coachman and his passenger, a female.

Presently he heard someone walking toward him, while the carriage waited.

He heard a soft rustle in the carpet of grass, a whisper of shallow breaths. The man waited, his own breathing having grown quite difficult. He purposely coughed once, so as to announce his presence.

"Raoul? Is that you?"

That trilling, musical voice was unmistakeable.

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, closed his eyes in agonized pain. He was sure that, in all the years of having suffered the onslaughts of humanity's scorn and ridicule, he had never experienced anything worse than this.

He now knew exactly what he had to do.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: As usual, I must insist that all rights to these characters belong to Leroux, et al...yet, as we all know, these fictional people belong to all of us who dearly love them! **

**Chapter 15: A Nocturnal Surprise **

His heart beat frantically as she drew closer. The scent of her perfume teased his distended nostrils, and he knew only that she was _his_ woman. No other man would ever touch her. An overpowwering combination of love and lust suddenly enflamed him, and he had to attempt to breathe more slowly, or he would take her savagely, right there on the sweetly fragrant grass.

"Raoul?"

He stepped from behind the bush, and she yelped in surprise.

"Raoul! You...frightened me!"

"I am _not_ your precious little Vicomte, Mademoiselle Daae!!"

Her eyes widened as she realized, too late, that this man was much too tall to be Raoul de Chagny. Nor would the Vicomte have been enveloped in the very essence of darkness, which covered him from head to foot. She opened her mouth to begin her explanation, but found that she could say nothing. She should have been reassured that it was Erik who was present at the mysterious rendezvous. Instead, she stepped back hesitantly, thus betraying her sudden, violent fear.

"Nothing to say, my _love_? I am _so _sorry to disappoint you! _C'est dommage, n'est ce pas?_ It is a pity, is it not? I cannot believe I fell so thoroughly for your clever charade! But you are an actress, after all. You played your role of the lovestruck opera singer quite convincingly, I must say!"

She shook her head slowly, trembling as she did so.

"No! No! Erik, I have to explain to you! You do not know..."

"Explain? How so, explain? No story you could possibly concoct would satisfy me! I have seen for myself! You are here, after all!"

"Then it was _you_ who penned the note requesting my presence here!"

He smiled a predatory smile. "Indeed, Mademoiselle! You thought to find Raoul de Chagny waiting for you. But in his place, you have your poor, deformed Phantom..." He snickered as he spoke.

The moon made its abrupt appearance from behind a cloud, and his smile glinted dangerously in its silver light.

Christine stepped back once more. "What...do you...intend to do, Erik?" Her voice was a barely audible squeak. She was well acquainted by now with his formidable, irrational rage.

"_Do_, my sweet, devious diva? Why should you ask me that? Why such a question if you are guilty of no wrongdoing?"

"Erik...I have told you that I have an explanation, yet you refuse to hear it! If you truly love me..."

His voice became a menacing purr that raised the hair on the back of her neck. "If I _truly_ love you! You are insulting me!"

"Then I implore you to _listen _to me!"

"I cannot listen rationally at present, Christine...My mind is clouded by the most violent passion! I am going insane with jealousy..."

He stepped closer to her. She would have turned and run, but one of his hands whipped out, faster than a striking snake, and circled one of her wrists. Then he pulled her toward him. Although she attempted to resist, he was much too strong for her, and his grip was brutally tight.

"Erik! Don't hurt me, please!"

He did not answer her. Pulling off his mask, he brought his sensuous lips down on hers.

The moon was once more swallowed up by a cloud.

His kiss was rough, cruel, as he forced her mouth open and drank from her essence. She whimpered in pain, but for a moment only, as his lips swiftly turned tender, sweet, enticing. Her body relaxed slowly into his, and he released her hand as he cradled her in his arms. She was not aware how or when she put her arms around him, embracing him tightly...

He suddenly removed his mouth from hers, and she gasped for breath. Opening her eyes, she dimly saw his shadowy face very close to her own, felt his gusting breath on her face. Then he seemed to draw back briefly, and she sensed movement.

Before she could ask him what he was doing, there was a wet handkerchief on her face, and a strange smell that was so overpoweringly sweet, she thought she would surely gag. Then darkness swallowed her.

Erik covered her face completely, waiting for the chloroform to do its work. He removed the hankerchief as soon as her body began to sag against his.

"Forgive me, my sweet," he said huskily, "but I cannot allow any other man to claim the woman who belongs to me alone..."

Holding her with one arm, he tucked the handkerchief into a hidden pocket of his cloak, and gently swung her into his arms.

"Where are you going with my niece, my dear Phantom?"

Erik could not believe that he had not heard the man's footsteps. Christine had always had this all-encompassing effect on him. It rendered his normally acute senses powerless.

Joseph Buquet walked over to the Phantom. The moon's softly deflected light sharply highlighted his features, which were drawn into a scowl.

Erik turned slightly to face him, still holding Christine. Buquet swallowed visibly as he caught sight, for the first time, of the Phantom's disfigured visage. Even in the weak moonlight, it was a frightening sight to behold.

"I will not hurt her," Erik said simply.

"Like you, my dear Phantom, I do not care to listen to explanations. You will release her to me at once."

Buquet suddenly brought up his right hand, which held a pistol.

Erik smiled confidently. "We are friends, Monsieur Buquet. You know very well what she means to me. You must also realize that I have no intention of ever harming her."

"Yet you have rendered her unconscious. Need I ask why? It is clear that you mean to take her innocence, and without her consent! What will you do when she realizes that you have irrevocably ruined her?"

Erik's expression changed to one of barely restrained fury. "You believe I would do such a thing to her, Buquet? The woman I worship with my every breath? I would surely be a monster, were I to sully her thus!"

"Then why have you drugged her? Where are you taking her? What are your intentions? Monsieur, she has no father to protect her, but I am her closest living male relative. I will not stand by and allow you to do this!"

Erik chuckled, even as he stared at the pistol aimed so resolutely at his heart.

"There is no need for you to worry, my friend. My intentions are honorable. I am going to marry her at once. Then all this foolishness with the Vicomte will cease, once and for all!"

Joseph Buquet was shocked, but the pistol remained firmly trained on Erik.

"You are truly mad, Monsieur! Do you believe she will stand for this?"

Erik shrugged. "She loves me. Have you not told me so yourself?"

Buquet bristled at this. "Yes, Erik, but she will not like being forced into marrying a madman!"

"Well, my friend, she gives _me_ no choice in the matter! Once she is firmly mine, no one will dare to take her away from me!"

"You have still not told me where you are taking her," Buquet persisted, not lowering his pistol.

"I have a carriage waiting for us. Since you are here, you may as well dismiss the coachman who brought her. Then you may join us, if you like. You can be our witness. We are going to a chapel not far from here. I know the priest there quite well. He will marry us at once."

"Do I have your word that you will not harm her?"

Erik sighed. "I will always protect her with my life, Monsieur Buquet."

The latter finally lowered the gun, shaking his head in dismay. "She will object most strongly when she awakes, Monsieur," he said quietly.

"Come," Erik replied. "We must leave at once. The effects of the chloroform will not last much longer. Now kindly hand me my mask, if you please."

Sighing, Buquet bent down to pick up the Phantom's hastily discarded mask, and gave it to him without a word. Erik balanced Christine in his arms, and put the mask back on with one hand. Buquet then preceded the Phantom, walking toward the carriage that had brought Christine to the park. Erik followed slowly, on eerily silent feet.

After a few words with Buquet, the coachman nodded, and urged his horse forward. Once he was gone, Buquet turned, to see Erik walking purposefully toward him.

"I am still not comfortable with this, Erik."

The Phantom, looking quite pleased with himself, merely smiled again. "Everything will turn out well, Monsieur Buquet. You need not fear for your niece."

"You are accustomed to getting your own way, in the face of all opposition, I see!"

"Point well taken. Still, she will come to understand why I am doing this."

Christine's uncle sighed once more. "Let us hope so, Erik. You have yet to convince me that you will actually give her a decent future."

They were now standing before Erik's carriage. Mounting the step without any effort, the Phantom gently deposited his beloved Christine inside, then swung himself in beside her. Buquet followed, after instructing the coachman to take them to their destination.

Erik settled back in the seat, taking the unconscious diva into his arms. Then he turned to her uncle, and smiled triumphantly.

"Monsieur Buquet, I am giving her Paradise."


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: The plots belong to anyone of us who care enough to weave stories around these beloved characters. The characters themselves, alas, belong to Leroux and company...**

**Chapter 16: The Aristocrat's Wrath Unleashed**

The sun was already sinking toward the horizon when the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny finally arrived at the Opera House.

To his intense dismay, one of his mother's friends had unexpectedly arrived at his Paris apartments, just as he was about to leave. Social graces demanded that he entertain her, although he did explain, as politely as he could, that he was bound on an urgent errand. The Marchioness of Vermaine was not someone to be lightly brushed aside, however, and he had to suffer through her nearly interminable recounting of her recent travels along the Mediterranean shore, which had covered three countries -- Turkey, Greece, and Italy.

To make his agony complete, she had brought her niece with her, and the young woman made her interest in him quite evident. Raoul had to admit that she was, in fact, rather pretty. Had his heart not already been consumed by one young Swedish diva, he would certainly have returned this young woman's interest. He groaned inwardly as the thought struck him that the Marchioness would make a point of mentioning her visit to his mother, as the woman was plainly intent on a little matchmaking on behalf of her niece. That would certainly create some pressure on him to call on the girl. _Well,_ he thought morosely, _I shall have to pay her a visit, if only to inform her that my heart irrevocably belongs to another..._

The young Vicomte strode purposefully into the Opera House. He pushed past the questioning glances of performers passing him, bent on reaching his intended destination -- Christine Daae's dressing room. In one hand he still clutched the note she had sent him.

"Vicomte!"

The voice was rather shrill, and drippingly obsequious. Raoul cringed, but refused to break stride.

"Monsieur, I beg pardon if you are in a great hurry, but I can assure you that your errand will be fruitless."

That ridiculous comment finally captured his attention. Whirling, he confronted the unpleasant Carlotta, his face twisted into obvious displeasure.

"What are you referring to, Madame? How could ypu possibly know what my errand would be?"

Carlotta smiled wickedly, and her voice took on its most blatantly sensual tones. She walked up to the Vicomte, deliberately swaying her hips as one of her hands came forward to grasp his shirt sleeve. Raoul suffered the contact. He was, after all, a gentleman, even if she was no lady.

Undeterred by his obvious distaste, Carlotta simpered at him.

"Ah, my dear Vicomte, how devious are the ways of love! And how very obvious its intoxicating effects, as well! You are the very picture of the besotted young lover! It is not difficult at all to divine the nature of your rushed errand, _mon coeur_! But your true love is not here, I fear...perhaps she does not desire your attentions, in spite of..."

Anger and fear seized hold of Raoul's mind at once, and he turned them fully upon this woman whom he knew to despise Christine. He had not the slightest doubt that she would be behind any irregular event that befell Christine. Shaking off her hold, he grasped the Italian diva's arms with both hands, and shook her violently.

"What have you done with her, you disgusting excuse for a woman? Have you not the compassion attributed to your sex?"

Carlotta was not only shocked, but suddenly very much afraid, although not of suffering any violence at his hands. Well she knew the Vicomte's reputation for treating the fair sex as a true gentleman should, even if, at the moment, he seemed to have forgotten himself. What she feared far more was the possible loss of his patronage. So she attempted to soothe him.

"Calm yourself, Monsieur! I am truly sorry if my comments seemed heartless. I would never do anything to intentionally harm Mademoiselle Daae! She has simply disappeared! Some are saying that she must have been abducted by the infamous Phantom of the Opera..."

Raoul abruptly let her go, but his breathing had grown rapid and labored. He stared intently at her for a few seconds, apparently engaged in an inner debate. Then he slowly brought his arms down, attempting to control himself.

It was a full minute before he was able to speak.

"Forgive me, Madame. I am quite beside myself, as you can see. Are you quite sure that she has disappeared? When was the last time she was seen?"

Carlotta was not one to miss a second chance to redeem herself. So she suitably wrung her hands, affecting dismay. Raoul was not fooled by her incompetent acting, but decided to ignore it, in pursuit of some answers.

"Alas, Monsieur, she was not at rehearsals this afternoon! The last time I myself set eyes on her was yesterday evening!"

"But how could she be gone so suddenly? Indeed, she had requested my..." He suddenly clamped his mouth shut. Christine's note was not Carlotta's concern, after all.

He turned from the diva, muttering a soft curse. "Forgive me once more, Madame, but I must speak with the managers at once. This sort of thing is simply not to be tolerated!"

Carlotta knew better than to try to detain him. With a wistful sigh, she turned, on her way to a romantic assignation. Piangi awaited her, and she was not thrilled by that fact. She sighed again, as a fleeting image of the young, virile Vicomte rolling in bed with her passed through her mind. She simply could not understand his consuming fascination with the rather thin Swedish singer. Still, she comforted herself, Piangi was better than no man at all...

Monsieur Richard was dashing down a corridor himself when Raoul accosted him.

"Ah, Vicomte!" The manager smiled rather nervously as he beheld the young man's forbidding scowl.

"Where _is_ she?" Raoul thundered at him, without any preamble.

"Ah, if you please, my dear Vicomte, calm yourself! I am quite sure that she will be found..."

"I hold you and Moncharmin personally responsible for her safety, Monsieur Richard!" Raoul bellowed.

"Well, yes, I understand..."

"How did this happen?" Raoul would not be calmed, even as he became aware that they had an audience. Several ballet dancers and chorus members had stopped on their way to their dressing rooms, and were openly gaping at him.

Richard felt the first drops of sweat begin to bead on his brow,

"I am sorry to say that no one has the slightest idea, my dear Vicomte."

"That is _not_ a satisfactory answer, Monsieur! I tell you, you _will _answer for her life, should anything untoward have befallen her!"

"Ye...Yes...Monsieur le Vicomte, _je comprend_...I understand...The police have been notified, of course...we are doing everything in our power, believe me..."

"And what of this mysterious man called the Phantom of the Opera? I have seen him with my own eyes! Where does he dwell? Could he be the one who...?

"Indeed, Monsieur, I do believe so!"

The earnest voice belonged to one of the ballet dancers.

Raoul turned to her at once. "What do you know of this man?" he demanded.

The young girl trembled under his thunderous gaze. She curtsied in a rather wobbly manner.

"Indeed, Monsieur, I only know the tales I have heard. But they sang together when she made her debut. There have been rumors that he is her betrothed..."

"This is madness! Why has this man not been apprehended already?"

Raoul turned his fury back onto the hapless Richard. Seizing her opportunity, the young ballet dancer skittered away.

"Well, Monsieur? You must answer me! Has the police not been informed of this madman's existence?"

"Indeed, they have, my dear Vicomte! I can assure you of that personally! Why, Monsieur Lestrade himself has become involved in the matter. His detectives are even now at work..."

"Where is he, this Monsieur Lestrade? I must speak with him at once, do you hear?"

Monsieur Richard took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and began mopping the sweat on his brow.

"My dear, dear, Vicomte...you really must calm yourself...the commissioner is not here at the moment..."

"As well he should be! I want him found at once. I tell you, I _must _speak with him!"

With a curt nod, he started off in the direction of Christine's dressing room.

"Vicomte, I do believe you should see this...note..." The voice belonged to Meg Giry.

Raoul's face was truly formidable to look at as he spun round to face her, snatching the note from the young girl's hand. As he swiftly perused it, his facial expression darkened even more. Then he flung the note down.

"When did she receive this? I did _not _send this note to her!"

"Indeed, Monsieur le Vicomte, I do not know," Mademoiselle Giry answered. "I found it on the grounds near the stables. She had apparently dropped it in her haste."

"Enough!" Raoul cried out. "I wish to hear no more of this. I need the speediest horse available, right this moment, do you hear?"

"But, Monsieur..." Richard began, in a despairing tone.

"I shall get one myself!" Raoul shouted, and ran toward the Opera House entrance, on his way to the stables.

It was at this point that Monseiur Moncharmin dashed up to his partner.

"What in blazes is going on, Richard?" he inquired breathlessly. He glanced around at their small audience, which had not yet begun to disperse.

Monsieur Richard sighed. "What is going on, you ask, _mon ami_? Nothing at all...simply our utter ruin..."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I never tire of playing with these most beloved, fascinating characters, finding new plots for them to be involved in. For the pleasure of this activity I must thank Leroux, as well as Webber and Kay...Most of all, my sincere thanks to Gerry Butler, who inspired this particular tale...**

**Chapter 17: At The Gates Of Death**

As the coach neared their destination, Erik felt his beloved Christine stir in his arms. When he looked down at her, he saw that her lips were moving, soundlessly. Her eyes, however, remained closed.

Buquet noticed as well, and leaned toward Erik and the young woman protectively ensconced in his arms.

"What is it, Monsieur?" He inquired with some anxiety.

Erik tried to smile reassuringly at Buquet, but found he could not. Indeed, his heart had begun to pound in a rather alarming fashion. Christine, he well knew, would be furious when she awoke. Who could fault her? Even though she loved him, she could not possibly enjoy the idea of being so precipitously forced into marriage.

"She is beginning to awaken, Monsieur Buquet, " Erik whispered, hoping that she would really not, as yet.

And then Christine sighed, moving sinuously against Erik. He smiled sheepishly in the darkness, glad that Buquet could not see the instant effect this movement had sparked in him.

Then Christine opened her eyes.

Erik fruitlessly attempted to stifle a groan. He had hoped she would remain unconscious at least until he could get her into the little chapel...

"What...Where? Am I...Papa!"

"Shhh...no, my love, it is your Angel of Music. Relax, beloved, for you have nothing to fear."

"Erik?" Her eyes turned upward, seeking his.

In answer, he bent his face down to hers, and lightly touched his lips to her own.

"Oh..._Erik..._" She stirred against him once more, and eagerly returned his kiss.

Erik, truly smiling now, gently lowered the arms that had already begun to reach for him, however weakly.

"No, no, my sweet, wait...Let me carry you out. You are apparently still half asleep."

Gathering her firmly into his arms, he carefully stepped out of the coach. Buquet hastily stepped out on the other side.

Christine, still weak from the effects of the chloroform, was limp in the Phantom's arms. Erik frowned, now beginning to worry. He had researched this drug. It had recently come into use as an anesthetic during surgery, and very successfully so. Had he given her too much? He would never forgive himself if he had.

He turned to Buquet, who now came around the coach, and was walking toward them. His face, barely visible in the dim moonlight, showed obvious dismay.

"Where have you brought us, Erik?" His voice was full of awe and dread as he looked about him.

Erik reluctantly brought his eyes up from Christine's face. He was not at all surprised by the man's reaction, for strange, fearful shapes loomed a few feet ahead of them, made even more terrifying by the moon's gloomy light. A fence of black iron spikes surrounded the shapes, and there was a formidably huge gate in the very center of it, before which Erik and Buquet stood. To Buquet's alarm, the gates were wide open, as if their arrival had been expected.

They were standing in front of a cemetery.

"What place is this, Monsieur?" Buquet now demanded, his anger overcoming his obvious fear. "What do you plan to do with my niece?"

"Please calm yourself, Monsieur Buquet. There is nothing to fear. The chapel is on the other side of the cemetey, but that way is currently impassable."

"Why?" Buquet had drawn closer now, and Erik noticed immediately that his right hand had drifted dangerously close to the right pocket of his trousers.

"There was a fire in the adjacent rectory, and the rubble has not yet been cleared away. We must enter through the cemetery, unfortunately. I am quite sorry, Monsieur, but there is no other way."

"Erik...never have I known you to lie to me, but these are extraordinary circumstances! You would do anything to make Christine yours, would you not? What sort of marriage ceremony do you have in mind? Might it be one performed in hell?"

At the mention of her name, Christine stirred again.

"Erik, what is it? Where are we?"

"Hush, my beloved...All is well. We shall be wed, as soon as Monsieur Buquet calms down."

Turning to Christine's uncle, he now said, "I realize this entrance looks extremely forbidding, sir, but I assure you, no harm shall befall your niece. If you will simply follow me..."

"Niece? What in heaven's name are you talking about, Erik?" Christine began to struggle in his arms. "Put me down! What are you...Why are you carrying me? Where are we?"

"All in good time, my dear," Erik soothed her, as, turning away from Buquet, he stepped toward the cemetery entrance.

"Monsieur Le Fantôme! You shall not take another step!"

Erik half-turned toward the irate Buquet. "Do you mean to shoot me, sir, with your niece in my arms?" he inquired calmly.

Buquet was livid with rage. "How dare you imply that I would harm my own niece! Set her down at once, so that I may deal with you, man to man!"

Erik carefully lowered his sweet burden to the ground, but he steadied her with a gentle arm about her shoulders. She looked up at him quizzically for a moment, then frowned.

"Erik...can you please explain to me what is happening here? We were in The Tuileries, were we not? Where are we now? And why is Monsieur Buquet here with us, wherever 'here' is?"

Suddenly she gasped. "I remember now! You...you..._drugged_ me, Erik! You...you...!" She took two steps away from him, and he made no move to drag her back to his side, but stood unmoving, looking at her with all the longing he was capable of.

"Christine, let me explain...," he began, knowing it was fruitless.

"I see," she retorted, as her own anger now rose. "You would now like me to extend _you_ the courtesy of listening to _your _explanation! Well, I think there is no need for one. You have abducted me! You have taken me away from everything I love, and against my will! To what end, sir?"

Stepping further away from him, she began to take in her surroundings, looking about her wildly.

"What place is this? A...cemetery?"

"Christine!" Erik pleadingly held a hand out to her. "I beg you...do not be afraid! Beyond this place of Death lies the gateway to our happiness! Trust me, and come with me!"

"Do not listen to him, Christine! At last I see that he is truly a madman! Come over to me, and we shall return to the Opera House!" Buquet beckoned to her with his left hand, while he kept the pistol aimed at Erik with his right.

Christine glanced over at him. "Why are you here, Monsieur Buquet? Why should I trust _you_? What is your part in all this?"

Buquet sighed patiently, a strange thing, under the circumstances. "I feel responsible for your welfare, since I am...your uncle, my dear."

"You are what?" Christine felt a sudden wave of shock sweep through her. She turned from one man to the other. Whom could she trust now?

"It is true, my love, " Erik said, softly. Then, as if he had read her thoughts, he added, "You may trust either one of us, for we both have your best interests at heart. In this instance, however, he intends to take you away from me. He does mean well, but I am taking you to Paradise, if you will trust me."

She shook her head, bewilderment taking the place of shock. "What do you mean, Erik? What Paradise do you speak of? We are at the entrance to a cemetery!"

"My love..." he whispered with all the love that dwelt in his soul, as he dared to take a step toward her. "There is a chapel on the other side of the cemetery. We are to be married there. A priest awaits us even now..."

"Married? Erik, what madness is this? You are _forcing _me to marry you? Why are you taking from me what I would have given you of my own free will?"

"I know, my sweet...it was a cowardly action on my part...I feared to lose you to another..."

"Ah, I understand...you are speaking of the Vicomte, are you not?"

He nodded, lowering his head. "I suppose I have now instead succeeded in throwing you into his arms..."

"No, Erik...that is not so...but...you have asked me to trust you. Why have you not trusted me? Why have you taken this drastic step?"

Now she turned toward the silent, but vigilant, Buquet. "Why have you accompanied us, Monsieur Buquet? And what is this tale that you are my...uncle?"

Sighing, he replied, "It is quite true, Mademoiselle. I had never made myself known to you, because I was afraid you would not want such an uncle. I am your father's bastard brother, never mentioned in the family. Furthermore...I have a murder on my soul..."

He was most unexpectedly interrupted by the clatter of approaching horse's hooves. Then a harsh shout rang out.

"Christine! Step away from that man at once!"

It was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.


End file.
